"Good heavens! Did Hawkhurst know she loved another man?"
"Not then, more's the pity. And to have seen her with the Admiral you'd have thought her downright saintly, she was so loving and devoted."
"So… he married her," murmured Euphemia, "only to please his benefactor."
Archer nodded dourly. "And thereby destroyed her, himself, and their child! Fool that he was! But I still hold that the man responsible was—Why, you young rascal! What the deuce d'ye mean by cavorting about when I said you must lie on the sofa and be quiet?"
A small hand was tugging urgently at Euphemia's skirt. She looked down into Kent's face, aglow with excitement as he pointed towards the hall. He was dressed and looked much better at last, but the doctor was perfectly right, for the air in this room was much too cold for him.
"I rather gather," she said with a merry twinkle, "that I am summoned." She put out her hand. "Thank you, doctor. For our… discussion."
He took her hand, patted it gently, and grinned, "Call it—an investment, dear lady."
Walking towards the stairs with the excited boy hopping along beside her, Euphemia pondered Archer's last remark. "… an investment…"? Did he mean because of her promised effort to refute the gossip about Hawkhurst? He had opened her eyes to a good deal, and she had no least doubt but that he had spoken truthfully. Still, there was the matter of Gains. No one would ever forgive Hawk for so savagely disfiguring his neighbour, even if—
She was surprised at this point to discover that she was being urged not down the second flight of stairs to the ground floor, but along the landing towards the rooms occupied by the family. She looked at Kent wonderingly, but he nodded his fair head, beaming up at her and continuing to pull at her hand.
At the far end of the corridor, two maids were peering through a half-open door. They turned at Euphemia's approach and, the elder of their pair proving to be Ellie, hurried to her. "Oh, Miss! I know Master Kent didn't mean to be naughty but—if Mr. Garret comes there will be such a bobbery! Me and Cissy's scared to go in, and don't dare to call one of the footmen, for then Mr. Garret would be sure to hear of it!"
Really alarmed now, Euphemia swept past the maids and pushed the door wide.
The luxurious bedchamber was graced by three tall windows with plumply cushioned windowseats. Large, deep chairs, and a sturdy leathern sofa flanked a great fireplace, and to one side was a fine old desk of glowing cherrywood with a tapestry-covered chair before it. Against one wall stood a well-stocked gun cabinet, and there were several bookcases crammed with volumes. Yet all of these things registered only dimly in her mind, for to the far right of the room stood an enormous canopied bed, the red brocade curtains tied back to reveal a decidedly uninvited occupant who sprawled comfortably upon the eiderdown, his unlovely head resting on the pillow as though it had been placed there especially in his behalf.
"Sampson!" gasped Euphemia.
"And—Lord Gains be such a nice gentleman!" whimpered Cissy.
Kent ran to stroke that massive head fondly and grinned back at Euphemia.
"The dog was waiting outside the kitchen door," Ellie supplied. "And when the little fellow see him, I 'spect he thought he lived here, so he let him in. They runned all over! Me and Cissy's been straightening up the rugs and the stuff they knocked over. But Master Kent can't make him get off! Mr. Garret's out with Sir Simon, but they'll be back any minute, and the master's…" She glanced at Kent's now uneasy countenance and finished carefully, "He's not in a very happy frame o'mind, Miss."
The recollection of Hawkhurst's black rage at the breakfast table sent Euphemia's eyes flashing to the gun cabinet. "Kent! Get him down from there!"
Obediently, the child seized the hound by the throat and pulled manfully. Sampson opened one eye, licked his hand, then went back to sleep.
Euphemia nerved herself, stepped inside, her heart racing at such flagrant impropriety, and entered the fray. She cajoled, scolded, and threatened—in vain. The two maids began to moan and wring their hands. "Quiet!" she hissed. "We mustn't attract attention! Sampson, you stupid great elephant, do you wish to be shot? Come down this instant, sir!"
Sampson regarded her with tolerant amusement, lolled his tongue, turned onto his back and stretched, then allowed his legs to droop in a most impolite abandonment. Euphemia's frustrated moan faded into a gasp as she heard Hawkhurst's distinctive voice raised in a shout for "Parsley!"
"Oh, my God!" she ejaculated. "Come and help me, quickly!" The maids, however, craven in the face of peril, had deserted. Her knees turned to water. How ghastly if she was found in here! But she could not allow the foolish animal to be slain. "Kent, run and find something he might like to play with!"
The child ran to the dressing table and returned bearing a riding crop with an intricately carven grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He gave the insouciant hound a prod in the ribs with this. Sampson half opened one eye and was transformed into a maelstrom of energy; legs writhed, back twisted, ears flapped, and tail wagged furiously. He stood on the bed, then launched himself for the "stick," landing with a crash against a chest of drawers, thus sending two candelabra and a clock toppling.
"Good! Now, hurry!" cried Euphemia, running for the door.
It was too late Hawkhurst's voice, raised in irritation, was already in the hall. With a stifled sob, Euphemia drew back. Heavy brocade curtains, matching those of the bed hangings, closed off what appeared to be a dressing room. Pushing Kent before her, and with Sampson bouncing along, flourishing the crop that now resided between his jaws, she made a dart for it, swung the draperies closed behind her and, finding a heavy door also, pushed it to, praying it might not squeak. It did not, but before she could latch it, the hall door burst open and she shrank back.
"… damned well ruined is what drives me into the boughs!" Hawkhurst was exclaiming. "If a man cannot shoot straight with a Manton, he's no business owning one!"
"I wish you will not treat it with such levity, Mr. Garret!" protested the agitated voice of Mr. Bailey. "It is my opinion the Constable should be summoned. You might well have—"
"Stuff! Where's my riding crop?" Euphemia threw a hand to her mouth, her heart thundering as she heard the clatter of articles moved by impatient hands. "Dammitall, Bailey! I collect I've left it in the stables. My head is full of windmills these days!"
Sure that he would next look in the dressing room, Euphemia hove a sigh of relief as he grumbled on, with Bailey making small placating remarks. It was probably a brief respite at best, however, and she would positively die of mortification if he discovered them in here! A grinding sound brought her startled gaze downward. Sampson was single-mindedly devouring his prize, while Kent, kneeling beside him, watched his efforts with admiration. It was doubtful that the crop could be wrested away without considerable commotion, and she dared not risk latching the door. Retreat was the only answer. She glanced swiftly around the dressing room. A tall mahogany chest held a clutter of male articles, several letters, and a miniature of a dark-haired woman with a sensitive mouth, and eyes of the same clear grey as those of Hawkhurst, his mother, beyond doubting. There was a full-length standing mirror and a recessed area with a clothes-rod, on which were hung the garments he would probably wear for luncheon. A hunting gun was propped against the side of the chest, and a dark blue quilted satin dressing gown was tossed carelessly over a straight-backed chair. Her eyes flickered swiftly over these items and flew to the door at the rear of the small room. She tiptoed to try the latch and could have wept with chagrin. It was locked, and there was no visible key.
"… might be down in the stables," Hawkhurst was calling. "Oh, and be a good fellow, tell Dr. Archer I'll ride back with him." Bailey's distant voice raised an immediate protest, and Hawkhurst responded, "Devil, I will! Tell him!"
The door was closed, and she gripped her hands in relief. If he intended to ride again he was not likely to change clothes now. But that revolting dog was grinding like a full-fledged grist mill!
Ha
wkhurst muttered a vexed, "What the… hell!"
He must have seen the fallen candelabra and clock. With a flutter of the heart, Euphemia knew that, if he next found dog hairs upon his pillow, they would be undone, for he would certainly initiate a search for the culprit.
Kent tugged at her skirts and peered up at her, his small face anxious. Poor child, she must not frighten him. She forced her pale lips into a smile and bent to whisper, "I do not wish Mr. Hawkhurst to be cross with Sampson, dear, so we shall play a little game of hide and seek. Try to keep him quiet." Intrigued by the game, he nodded, and she draped the large dressing gown over the crouching boy and the busy dog. Sampson raised no protest, and Euphemia's hopes escalated as she heard Hawkhurst stride across the room and open the door. Thank heaven! She eased the dressing room door open and peeped between the curtains.
"Fillman!" he bellowed, then grumbled, "Why don't you answer the bell, damn your ears?" He slammed the door. The draft sent the curtains billowing outward, and, sure she would be seen, Euphemia jumped back. Her elbow struck the door causing it to swing wide and crash against the wall. She barely had time to gasp with fright before two strong hands wrenched the curtains apart.
Hawkhurst towered over her, his face grim and deadly. She could have sunk but stood her ground, her knees shaking and her reeling brain searching frantically for the convincing explanation that did not exist.
Hawkhurst, on the other hand, quite literally sprang back, so obviously flabbergasted that she knew a nervous need to giggle.
"Wh-What…" he gulped. "What… in the name of… ?"
Her mouth very dry and her face very red, Euphemia said feebly, "I—I was… er—lost."
"Lost?" he echoed, recovering somewhat, although he was pale with shock. "I have encountered many 'lost' people on my estates. But never, I must admit, in my bedchamber!"
"Well, I can understand that would… er… be so," she stammered, tottering valiantly into the bedchamber. "But… I did not quite know… that is…" She floundered helplessly. What on earth could she say to the man?
His eyes, chips of ice now, slanted from the fallen candelabra and clock to the curtains behind her. "What have you been about?" he demanded suspiciously. "I have been a slowtop again, is that it? And this whole damnable thing was a badly managed scheme to—"
'To do—what?" she countered, indignation banishing fear. "Steal that Rembrandt you have in the gallery? Make off with your twenty-foot tapestry from the dining room? But, of course! I have 'em both. One tucked in my ear and the other up my sleeve! Would you wish to inspect, perhaps… ?" And she leaned to him, pulling out her ear lobe in angry mockery.
Her slight movement was accelerated as his hands clamped onto her shoulders and pulled her to him. She was crushed against his chest, and he was bending to her mouth. She did not scream but, even as she struggled, knew that this was scarce to be wondered at. What must he think of her? And he was so terribly strong, she could not break free. Her heart began to leap erratically. His lips were a breath away. A new light was in his eyes, a look of such tenderness that her anger was transformed into a sudden and hitherto unknown terror. Gone was her famed calm in time of crisis, gone the cool courage that had always enabled her to meet whatever Fate flung at her. Out of this debilitating panic came a strangled sob, and, jerking her head from his questing lips, she gasped, "I have none but myself to blame for this crude assault. God knows, I should have had more sense than to investigate a strange sound—in the bedchamber of the most notorious libertine in England!"
For an instant he stood very still. Then he straightened and stepped back, bowing slightly, a twisted smile bringing no trace of mirth to eyes over which the lids once more drooped cynically.
She felt drowned by remorse and reached out to him in an intense need to make amends, but before she could speak a sound penetrated the silence, a sound as of grist being ground between heavy millstones.
Hawkhurst's gaze flashed to the dressing room. "Strange sound, indeed!" he breathed, and sprinted for the curtains. And in that same instant, as though a capricious Fate decreed it, Sampson elected to gallop for freedom, the remnants of the crop carried triumphantly between his jaws, a piece of mother-of-pearl shining atop his muzzle. He caromed into the advancing man, and, caught off balance, Hawkhurst reeled into the wall. Sampson plunged for the door. Quite undismayed to find it shut, he diverted himself by tearing three times around the room, sending rugs, a chair, and a lamp tumbling. He then bounded onto the bed and crouched, panting happily, perfectly ready to participate in whatever game was next offered him. Hawkhurst, less amiably inclined, gave a howl of rage. "Get off my bed! Down, you damnable imp of Satan! Blast your fleas! What's he got there… '? My whip? By God! But this is too much!" He made a dive for the dressing room and emerged, gun in hands and murder in his eyes.
Euphemia, however, had seized her opportunity. The door stood ajar, and the echoing thump of four large paws, punctuated by an occasional crash, drifted to them.
"Out of my way, woman!" raged Hawkhurst. "How in the devil did that worthless mongrel get in here? By thunder, I'll murder the—"
"Be still!" she admonished sharply. "The child is here."
Infuriated, he swung around to discover Kent, who had crept out from under the dressing gown, and now stood white-faced in the doorway to the dressing room. "Did you let that miserable hound in here?" Hawkhurst demanded. "What in the deuce are—" And he broke off, fury fading into consternation.
Kent, his face twitching, shaking his head pleadingly, was shrinking back. Frowning, Hawkhurst started towards him. Euphemia ran to snatch the gun from his hand. He cast her an irked look and strode for the boy. "Kent, now you must certainly—"
But the child, sobbing in his pathetic, soundless fashion, was stumbling ever backward across the dressing room, until the locked door barred his way, until his fumbling hands, pressing frenziedly at the wall, could find no escape. And, accepting the inevitability of his fate, he cringed there, arms flung upward to protect his face, his slender body crouched and shuddering in anticipation of the beating that must follow.
Hawkhurst stared down at him in stark horror. Forgotten now was the dog or the whip that had been his father's. Forgotten, even, the girl and her scorn that had seared him. The years rolled back, and he himself stood thus before the raging tutor, terror making him sweat, and the cane whistling down at him… He fell to one knee and adjured softly, "Kent, never do that. Not to me, boy."
The voice held a caress, and, reacting to it at once, the child peeped between his shielding arms and found the dark face magically transformed. The mouth curved to a kindly smile, the harsh lines had vanished, and the anger in the cold eyes was replaced by a gentleness such as made the threat of savage reprisal a thing impossible. Daring to breathe again, Kent lowered his arms. Hawkhurst reached out. For a moment the boy stared wonderingly, then with a thankful gasp, threw himself into those strong arms, to be enfolded and held firm and safe against a corduroy-clad shoulder.
Blinded by tears, Euphemia crept away and left them together. And, running to her room, for one of the few times in her life, she lay on her bed and wept with total abandonment. When at last the paroxysm ended, she lay there limp and exhausted, breathing in great shuddering gasps, and bewildered by her own hysteria. She sniffed, sat up, and, drying her tears, took herself firmly in hand. How ridiculous to behave in this missish way. There was no reason to tremble so, nor to feel so frightened and lost. Whatever was the matter with her? Hawkhurst would understand now why she had ventured into his bedchamber. He surely would not take her for the wanton he had evidently assumed her to be when first he found her there. He would soon apologize for having seized her so brutally… so tenderly…
Unaccountably, her eyes grew dim again, her throat tightened painfully, and with the memory of his stricken eyes tormenting her, she thought achingly, Oh, I wish I had not spoken so!
Chapter 9
Mrs. Graham would not be comforted. In a highly agitated state, t
he little lady gestured dramatically all along the upstairs corridor. Her sister-in-law, she mourned, would be furious, and there was not a bit of use to pretend innocence, for she never had been any good at dissembling, and Carlotta would know in a trice that she had been aware of the scheme.
"But, you were innocent, Dora," Euphemia smiled. "Now pray do not worry so. Hawk—hurst must like his new sister. And if he likes her, Lady Bryce will not dare to scold you."
Apparently unaware of that swiftly corrected slip, Dora merely heaved an apprehensive sigh. In an attempt to change the subject, Euphemia commented on what a fine young man Coleridge appeared to be and asked if his cousin really meant to force him into the army.
They had by this time come to the Great Hall and started toward the gold lounge where the family had lately formed the habit of meeting before luncheon. "I doubt he would force Colley to go," said Mrs. Graham. "But, he would like him to buy a pair of colours, for he is afraid, I think, that…"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly Page 14