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. Garrett! He's cornel 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, somehow."
"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?"
"If you're quick, Miss." He shot a conspiratorial smile at her and murmured, "The old gentleman's very angry, I'm afraid. Good thing I opened the door for him instead of that young fool, Strapp. But, he's a stickler for manners, and I thought… this dress might be—er, better."
She glanced around. There was no obliging screen in this room.
Manners laid the gown across a blue velvet chair. "I'll leave you and stand guard outside, in case—"
"No! I've no time for modesty now. Turn your back—and for heaven's sake don't let anyone in!" She struggled with buttons and fasteners as he returned to the door and faced it obediently. "The Admiral's preferences, Manners!"
"He likes Spanish cigarillos, Miss. There's a special box in the dining room. I'll get them directly I leave you."
"What about wine?"
"Port. Mr. Hawkhurst keeps a supply of 'seventy-three in the cellars. I know, because Mr. Ponsonby let me try a glass once. I'll basket some. It will be cold enough and should be welcomed, I would think."
"Excellent," gasped Euphemia, muffled under the brocade. Surfacing breathlessly, she asked, "Can Mrs. Henderson muster a decent meal, d'you think? I know men. My Papa was never so vexed as to come from a day on the march and find a poor table."
"Nell says she's some cold chicken and a pig's cheek. There's no time to make a pie, but there's a dish she knows with potatoes and curried meat she says will serve. Miss, can I go? Mr. Hawkhurst—"
Struggling vainly, Euphemia moaned, "Manners, are you wed?"
"Yes, Miss." He grinned at the door panel. "Buttons?"
"Yes. You're a gem! Come, do—and strive never to remember this, or I shall be as disgraced as your master!"
He spun around quickly and, searching her face, saw the mischievous smile as he started forward, his eyes admiring. Her hair was rumpled and coming down, but the pale gown accentuated the rich colour of it, and the pearls made her fair skin seem almost luminous. She might not be a beauty in the strictest sense of the word, thought Mr. Manners, but by heaven she was a fine-looking girl!
Euphemia stood before the mirror unabashedly as he fumbled with the four-and-twenty small buttons at the back of her gown. Plying the hairbrush, she said, 'Tell Mrs. Henderson to be sure to make as many sweets as possible. If she has none, a trifle—well soaked with wine—should serve. How does your master go on?"
"When I left just now, he was… ah, a trifle indisposed, Miss."
"The lemons!" exclaimed Euphemia around a mouthful of hairpins. Manners chuckled, and she said, "Poor soul! Well, he'll feel better for it. Now, te
ll me. Has Admiral Wetherby any pet subjects?"
"I've heard he was devoted to Nelson. And he's an admirer of a new artist called Constable. One of the few, I think."
"Thank you." She coaxed a ringlet over her shoulder. "Now, have you told the old gentleman to come in here?"
"I tried, but… it's hard to tell him much. I wasn't able to explain—"
Whatever had not been explained to the Admiral, Euphemia was not then destined to discover, for a querulous voice was raised in the hall, demanding, "Where in the deuce is everyone? Lottie… ? Dora… ?"
"Doesn't he know they're at the rectory?" whispered Euphemia, whipping her hair into place. Manners, wrestling perspiringly with the last two buttons, groaned, "I had no chance to tell him, Miss. He was full of complaints from the moment he alighted from his coach. His man looked—Oh my! He's coming!"
"Here!" Euphemia swept up her discarded habit and thrust it at him. In desperate haste she flung some perfume behind her ears, slipped the bottle into a pot of ferns, and hissed, "Out the terrace door! Quickly!"
He raced for the curtains, turned back suddenly, drew a fan from his coat pocket, and tossed it to her. Euphemia caught it and, collapsing into the nearest chair, gave a gasp of relief that just as suddenly became a whimper of dismay. She still wore her riding boots!
The hall door swung open. She whipped her feet back and stood, as Admiral Lord Johnathan Wetherby strolled into the drawing room. He was indeed "a stickler for manners," for he wore knee breeches and a black jacket. This much she saw before she sank into her curtsey. Straightening, she smiled into eyes as dark and cold as a midwinter night and with a quickening of her pulse knew she faced a formidable adversary. The features of this erect old gentleman were little changed from those in the portrait, only a few lines and the white hair betraying the years that had passed since it was painted. She stood slim and tall before him, unaware that her head was slightly thrown back, as his quizzing glass was lifted and he scanned her with slow deliberation from head to hem. She said nothing, wondering if he suspected her knees were a trifle bent, so as to prevent her confounded boots from showing.
The Admiral was, in fact, thinking that this girl was a cut above Hawk's usual run of doxies. "How very remiss of my grandson," he murmured, "to leave so charming a… lady alone."
"Yes," she smiled, having noted the deliberate pause. "Is it not? But I shall not rail at him since he has sent so delightful a… gentleman in his stead."
The quizzing glass, which had begun to lower, checked just a trifle, and the dark eyes sharpened. "Since we are faced with the embarrassment of no host, or hostess, to perform introductions, allow me to—"
"But it is not necessary, my lord." Seating herself, feet carefully tucked back, Euphemia added, "I know who you are, you see. And I do believe I shall make you guess my identity."
"Indeed… ?" His tone held the barest hint of boredom, but his interest had flared nonetheless. She was a graceful chit, with the poise of a Duchess. Hawk's taste was most decidedly improved. He took the chair she waved him towards—for all the world as though she presided over this house, the brazen jade!—and his eyes lingered with sardonic amusement on the fan she wielded.
Glancing down, Euphemia saw, too late, that Manners had taken up the ruby-encrusted fan that Papa's officers had presented to her last year. Her abigail had packed it by mistake, since it was by far too ornate for a country house. She bit her lip in momentary vexation, then continued to fan herself gently.
"I could scarcely have a notion of your identity, ma'am," he shrugged quellingly. "And that such as yourself could derive any pleasure from chatting to a crusty old sea-dog, I find… questionable."
"No, but it will be such a change, for you see I am accustomed to chatting with crusty old military men." Her smile was as sweet, her eyes as level as ever, but amused now, Wetherby suppressed a grin with difficulty. "Military…" he said, tilting his head thoughtfully. "You have a father, a brother, on the Peninsula, perhaps?"
"Only a brother now, sir." Briefly, sorrow touched her eyes, and she stifled a sigh as she thought of her beloved father, and a smile at the knowledge of how this interview must have infuriated him.
Manners entered to place the cigarillos and a tinder box at the Admiral's elbow. "Mr. Hawkhurst had bespoken some wine for Lord Wetherby," Euphemia lied softly. "You will not forget, Manners?"
"Your pardon, Miss. I will bring it at once."
"New man, I see," murmured the Admiral, his longing gaze on the cigar box.
Wondering what he would say if he knew he had just been waited on by the head groom, she evaded, "He is very good, but since your grandson is short-handed tonight, sir, I shall have to ask that you prepare your own cigarillo."
He glanced up eagerly. "You do not object, ma'am?"
She gave a little trill of laughter. "Lud, no. In Spain, I—" She stopped and bit her lip, as though she'd let the clue slip unintentionally.
"Aha!" he ejaculated in triumph, opening the beautifully inlaid box. "You betrayed yourself, ma'am! You accompanied your Papa, did you? He was an officer, then!"
"Alas, you are too clever for me, my lord."
He chuckled and, applying flame to tobacco, puffed contentedly, then, leaning back in his chair, asked, "Are you an… old friend of my grandson?"
"We have been at Dominer not quite two weeks, sir. In point of fact, we were on our way to Bath for the holidays when our carriage overturned, and Mr. Hawkhurst was so kind as to bring us here."
"How unfortunate. No one injured, I trust?"
"My brother again, a little, poor dear," she said with total innocence. "And my page became very ill un—"
"And now I have you, ma'am!" Wetherby sprang up with a surprisingly quick, lithe movement. "You are Armstrong Buchanan's girl! I heard his daughter had titian hair, and that her brother was come home with a ball through his shoulder. I trust Buchanan sustained no severe set-back?" He was bearing down on her even as he spoke, and she lifted her hand saying a rueful, "Oh, my! How very quick you are!" He laughed delightedly and bowed over her fingers. "Forgive me, my dear. I was disgruntled, and supposed you to be—someone else."
Knowing perfectly well what he had supposed, she smiled, "Of course. I thought perhaps you were a trifle into the hips after a tiresome journey. And my brother is mending so nicely I fear he will be returning to his regiment very soon. For which I have your grandson's magnificent friend, Dr. Archer, to thank." The instant the remark passed her lips, she saw his own tighten and, recalling Archer's hostility, knew it was shared and that she had committed a faux pas. Wetherby said nothing, however, and returned to his chair.
Manners slipped back in with a tray of decanters and glasses. The Admiral glanced at Euphemia, and she shook her head. He sniffed of the bouquet when Manners handed him the glass, sipped, and sighed ecstatically. "Hawkhurst keeps a fine cellar. I give him credit for that, at least."
"He has been a splendid host, my lord. Indeed, we are most deeply in his debt."
The old gentleman scanned her thoughtfully. This nice child should not be here. Perhaps she did know what she risked. "I take it," he said with slow reluctance, "that you are aware of my grandson's regrettable reputation, Miss Buchanan?"
"I am, sir. And find it far more regrettable that such wicked slander should be permitted to flourish against so very gallant a gentleman."
The Admiral all but dropped his cigarillo and practically goggled at her. "Your pardon, ma'am? I had thought we were discussing my grandson—Garrett Hawkhurst?"
"Indeed we were. How proud you must be. I am sure my brother will wish to convey his thanks to you also, for, were it not for your grandson, Sir Simon, myself and my page would all be in our graves today."
Lord Wetherby, recovering himself with a visible effort, leaned forward. "Dear lady, I see you have much to tell me. Would you be so good as to begin?"
"I quite fail to see," said Amelia Broadbent, with a wrinkle of her pert little nose, "what is so very remarkable abou
t the fact that Stephanie Hawkhurst has had all her pretty hair cut off and has taken to using cosmetics in the most vulgar fashion!" Raising her own carefully darkened brows, she added, "One might suppose the gentlemen to be a bunch of witless schoolboys, the way they scurry around her!"
"And one more remark like that, child," said her fond parent, smiling upon her fair loveliness with a terrifying expanse of bared teeth, "and you shall be taken home and made to lie down upon your bed with a dose of the elixir prescribed by dear Dr. Beddoes!"
This dire threat sufficed to have Miss Broadbent turn pale and subside behind her fan, albeit sending many a jealous glance at the small crowd gathered around Stephanie in the far corner of the gaily decorated Church Hall.
All evening it had been thus. Upon the arrival of the Hawkhurst party Stephanie had created a near sensation, both ladies and gentlemen pressing in to admire the shy but well-liked girl. There had been a small tussle between Ivor St. Alaban and John Stiles as to which should escort her in to supper. A pointless tussle, since the handsome guest of the Hawkhursts, Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan, had claimed that honour. Still, he could not be said to have monopolized his fair prize at the table, and in fact they scarcely exchanged words, each attending politely to the remarks of those about them and paying little heed to one another.
The music struck up, and the young ladies were again overjoyed to note that Sir Simon made no attempt to vie for the pleasure of leading Stephanie through the country dance. Their delight was tempered, however, when the gallant young soldier did not seek any other lady for a partner, instead charming the dowagers and gratifying the gentlemen who sought him out for news of the war. The more mature ladies smiled upon him and extolled his pretty manners. The younger damsels, deciding that he must still be too weakened to dance, thus found him more romantic than ever and sighfully watched him over their fluttering fans.
Stephanie, meanwhile, was torn between triumph and tears. To meet with outright admiration was something entirely new in her experience and could only send her spirits soaring. Yet to be so near the man she loved but not dare to look at him for fear of betraying herself, to long to dance with him and know he would not seek her out, to tremble with the consuming terror that tomorrow, or the next day, he would go away, leaving her life a howling desolation, was to suffer the depths of despair.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly Page 17