Euphemia wiped away her tears and sniffed, "You've earned it, dear one." Her petticoat was already torn, and with ruthless hands she was able to rip the flounce away. She handed him the strip, then gingerly explored the crushed boot, cringing as she found that the leather had been driven deep into the wounds. She glanced up at him, and he smiled encouragement. Not a whimper escaping him as she gently pulled the torn boot away, and rolled back the saturated edges of his breeches. The cuts were deep and ugly, the shin bone laid bare, and the calf pulsing blood. Struggling against a sick weakness, she said, "Will you try to move your foot, dearest?"
"Fiend… !" he gasped, but set his jaw, and she saw his foot move slightly.
"Then the bone is not broken! The boot must come off, though. I shall have to pull it, I'm afraid, Gary."
"Do so," he warned between gritted teeth, "and I shall very likely strangle you! Just—-just tie it up, if you… please, Mia."
"Very well." She took up the flounce and tore it in two. "Have you a pencil?"
He groped in his pocket and essayed a twitching grin. "Do you intend to draw up a plan?"
"My plans," she said gently, "are already made, sir, and so I warn you."
His strained smile faded, and he handed her a pencil. She put it behind her ear, and bandaged the wounds tightly, but crimson began to seep through at once. She tied the remaining strip of her petticoat a little below his knee, fashioned a loose knot, and thrust the pencil through it, as the surgeons had taught her in Spain. She was striving desperately to be cool and efficient, as she had been in the old days, but this was her love, and, glancing up at him, she was almost undone. His eyes were blank, but he looked exhausted, his face streaked with perspiration and a bluish tinge about his mouth that she had seen often among the wounded.
"I'm… prepared," he nodded. "Do your worst, madam."
Still she hesitated, dreading to hurt him again. Once more that quirkish grin gleamed valiantly, while his voice came like a steadying support through her fears. "You are very brave, if I have neglected to say so."
Her throat tightened, and her eyes were swimming. She wiped them impatiently and began to turn the pencil. Asking a muffled, "Is that all you have to say to me?"
"No…" he gasped out. "I… adore you, but… I shall— shall never—" But he was unable to complete his warning and had hurriedly to avert his face.
Euphemia blinked away new tears and turned the pencil resolutely.
Chapter 15
Hawkhurst dampened his handkerchief from a small puddle the vapours had deposited in a hollow of the roof. Murmuring words of admiration, he gently wiped mud from Euphemia's cheek, then took her trembling hands and began to remove his blood from them. She watched him numbly at first, then pulled away. "I vow I am wits to let! You are the one to be comforted!"
"And have been," he smiled. "Most competently. But you should not have followed me, my dear. You fell, I think? Have you hurt yourself?"
"A few bruises only. Oh, Hawk, who did so dreadful a thing? And why? And why ever would you come up here?"
For a moment he did not answer and then said bleakly, "On a clear day just to look at the view from this particular spot is—" He hesitated and said with the shyness of a man unused to speaking his thoughts, "… balm for the soul, I suppose you might say. I was—I had an appointment to meet someone here. Someone who knew, if I did not find him, I would climb to the tower. The trap was covered by ivy and set where I always stand to look toward the sea. Most… unfriendly."
"Unfriendly! How can you jest about so terrible a plot? He meant you to fall from the edge!"
His thoughts far away, Hawkhurst muttered, "Damnably clever, for he could thus be miles away at the time of my death. And yet, it makes no sense… for he c-cannot want m-me… d-dead, or…" His teeth were chattering so that he could not continue, and his efforts to stop shivering seemed merely to aggravate the seizure. Euphemia threw her arms about him, and he clung to her, despising his weakness but quite unable to control the shudders that racked him.
Euphemia knew that part of this was the reaction, but it was much too cold and exposed up here. She had allowed herself to think that they could wait until help came, but now she faced the fact that it might be hours before they were found. The fog seemed thicker than ever, and it would be much colder, perhaps freezing, after the sun went down. Hawkhurst had lost a deal of blood, and, even for so splendid a physical specimen, a night of exposure after such a horrible ordeal might have tragic consequences. If only he had a greatcoat or she had her pelisse, but they had left in such haste, clad only in the garments they had worn in the house.
"I must be the veriest fool," Hawkhurst drawled, his voice a little steadier, "to terminate this delightful embrace. But I think perhaps we'd best start down, Mia."
The thought of that sheer, slippery stair sent a deeper chill through her, but she stood at once, and by coming first to one knee and then leaning heavily on her, he managed to stand also. He did not betray himself but could not conceal his pallor, and, watching him, Euphemia said a frantic, "Dearest, you cannot! Perhaps I could find…" But the fog was quelling, and hope died away.
Hawkhurst nodded, took a step, and reeled drunkenly. It required every once of her strength to keep him from falling, but he gripped her shoulder and mumbled a faint and disjointed, "I'll be… all right. It's… that gown of yours… drives me to distraction."
She looked down. Her dress was ripped from thigh to hem. Incredulous, her gaze flashed up again. Pain was making him breathe in erratic little gasps, but there was a whimsical twinkle in his eyes, nonetheless. This, she thought, was the kind of valour that had so awed her on the Peninsula, the indomitable humour that could sustain a brave man through almost any emergency. She blinked and said huskily, "Alas, my reputation will be quite gone. I shall say you did it, and you will have to wed me!"
He laughed, took a step, and gritting his teeth, struggled on.
The worst part of the journey down was for him to come through the hole in the roof and onto the top step, but when at last that painful manoeuvre was accomplished, he turned back to assist Euphemia.
"Do not!" she cried anxiously. "Hawk, you should have let me go first!"
"What, and miss so trim an ankle?"
That he had seen far more than her ankle she was well aware, but she soon knew also why he had refused to let her go first, for despite his brave words he swayed dangerously as he essayed the first step, then leaned weakly against the wet rock wall.
"You cannot walk down," she decreed, peering at his averted profile. "Hawk, sit your way, or you will surely fall!"
"Good gad… ma'am… I am the head of… my house. What of my dignity?"
"I had rather have you humbly alive, than the most dignified corpse in—" A small, cold frog slithered across her foot. She let out an instinctive squeal, moved without volition, and slipped. Terror seized her. So did an arm of iron. She was slammed back against the wall so hard that the breath was beaten from her lungs, and panic overtook her, the courage that had upheld her this long dissolving into a shuddering sob. Hawkhurst, his own knees shaking, knowing how close they had come to tragedy, took up her cold hand and kissed it. "We'll follow your scheme, my brave girl," he said softly. "Farewell to dignity for both of us. Down with you!"
And so, most unheroically, they negotiated that chill and treacherous descent until at last they came to the ground and, having clambered through the choked aperture that had once been a mighty door, stumbled to the outer wall. Here, at last, Hawkhurst's strength gave out, and he sank down, groaning a frustrated curse at his weakness.
"My poor love," Euphemia said, scanning his ashen face and closed eyes with fearful anxiety. "I wonder you could get this far. Hawk, you cannot walk any further. I must go and try to find help!"
He caught at her hand and pulled her back as she made to leave him. "No. It's not so cold down here. And Colley may come. We'll wait… together."
Cold and trembling, she sat close beside h
im and, suddenly recalling the shawl pinned about her shoulders, began to unfasten it, intending to wrap it around him. His hand closed about her fingers, and she glanced up. He was leaning wearily against the rock wall, watching her, and in his eyes a light such as she had never before witnessed, and that brought a new humility to her, so full was it of love and reverence. He said nothing but smiled and put out his arm, and she crept within it, snuggling close against him.
"You do love me," she whispered. "I knew it. You cannot deny it now."
"I never said I did not. I said only that I would not marry you."
"Oh. Well then, we can—"
"We most assuredly can not!"
The fear that had haunted her ever since she'd seen that fragment of his letter became certainty. Staring blindly at his rumpled cravat, she said, "She's alive, isn't she, Garret? That's why you cannot offer me marriage."
He gave a harsh derisive laugh. "If it were only that simple! I could divorce her. Lord knows she gave me reason."
"Tell me." She moved back and watched him tautly. "It is not because of… of your—"
"Reputation? By God, but it is! And even were that all, it would be reason enough!"
"Well, it is not all. Garret, I love you. I have a right to know why happiness is denied me."
He scowled at the tower and muttered, "It is to ensure your happiness that I deny you."
"Then I will wait, however long it takes, until you disabuse your mind of such noble nonsense."
He watched her frowningly and, perhaps because he was weak and in much pain, sighed, "I believe you might, at that. Very well. You may see how hopeless it is." He groped in his pocket, took out the crumpled remains of the letter which had plunged them both into this perilous adventure, and held it out.
The fragment Euphemia had found had been thrust into her pocket. Her heart leaping, she retrieved it, fitted it carefully into place, and read:
My Dear Patron:
Your payment was adequate, wherefore I keep my word. Dawn tomorrow. At your favourite retreat. We will arrange a meeting. But come alone! And please—no plotting! I am no fool, as you know. I shall leave strict instructions with my people. If I do not return by a certain time, and without being followed, Avery will be sold to the factories, or to the mines.
Ever yrs, etc. Robert M
"Avery … ?" she breathed, astounded. "Your son? Avery is… alive?"
He nodded dully. "And had I but read that at once last evening, I might have seen him, at last. But I was too late."
"No, my dear one. Never grieve so! Mount had no thought but to kill you. What an evil man! He must be quite mad!"
"Yes, I think he is, now. Perhaps, to an extent, he always was."
"Because of Blanche?"
He gazed at her blankly, and, seeking to spare him as much as possible of that bitter retelling, she said gently, "I know some of it, Garret. Dr. Archer told me why you married her. And that she and Mount loved one another."
"Yes…" He looked away again and after a moment of brooding silence said, "I didn't know about that until after Avery was born. When I learned of it, I told her I had no objection to her pursuing her affair with Mount, so long as she was discreet about it." His lip curled. "More folly. I totally underestimated the depth of her passion. Mount was her god. And Mount wanted Dominer even more than she did. You may believe that I saw as little of either of them as I could manage, else I might have realized that fact. At all events, when Avery was two years old, I became very ill. Archer couldn't find the cause, but I grew steadily worse, and he insisted I be moved to his house. My recovery was rapid. Astonishingly so." Euphemia uttered a shocked gasp, and he smiled sardonically. "Hal tried to warn me. There were all kinds of rumors about, he said, odd rumors that I ill-treated my wife and son. Lord knows, I saw Blanche seldom, which might have been construed ill-treatment, but Hal said there was more to it and seemed to suspect some kind of plot. I laughed at him and said it was a lot of melodramatic fustian. And then one evening, Max Gains came over. We'd had a dispute for a long time. A foolishness that began over some trees along the boundary line. I'd cut them down. Max liked them. He never forgave me, and his blunt manner irked me. One word led to another. He always was terribly hot at hand, and I suppose I was, too. I could have ended it all by telling him that the trees had been diseased. But, like a perfect fool, I did not, and it went on until we were on the brink of a duel. This particular evening was extremely sultry, and I'd sent a lackey to bring me a glass of water just before Max arrived. I was alone in the library when Max burst through the terrace doors and started ranting at me about some nonsense that was so utterly unfounded I could only laugh at him. He came at me like a maniac. The glass was in my hand. It seemed so… logical to…" The words trailed off. He leaned his head back and gripped his leg and was silent.
Eyes wide, she whispered, "You threw it in his face? And… it was oil of vitriol?"
"Shall I ever forget how he cried out," he muttered sombrely. "How he stood there… clutching his poor face."
"If you… had drunk it! My God!"
"I sent Manners after Hal," he went on. "Max was half out of his mind with pain, and, as soon as it was possible, Hal took him back to Chant House. I went after that lackey. He was gone, of course. The poor fool had been dazzled by Blanche, and I've no doubt that he would have been branded my murderer had their nasty little scheme succeeded. But I knew better. I knew Hal had been right, and I went tearing upstairs after her. She was ready. She hid behind the door and lost no time in breaking a vase over my head." He smiled bitterly. "She had the gumption to hit hard, I'll say that for her. By the time I came around she had gone and had done her work well. The household was agog with the news that I had tried to kill her because she upbraided me for blinding Max. She had fled for her life, taking her child with her."
Euphemia squeezed his hand comfortingly. "So you went after her."
He nodded. "I should have gone to Max, I suppose, for, when I eventually returned to England, the time was long past when I could have explained anything. But Blanche never had cared a button for Avery. I knew the life he'd have with her. She went to Mount, of course. I chased them over half the Continent and caught up with them four months later in Nice. It was a dark night, and I left my curricle and raced into the pension where they were staying. What Mount had told those people I've no idea, but they behaved as though I were the fiend incarnate. I ran out of patience and started tearing doors open. The proprietor went after the local gendarme, but I saw Blanche and Avery run across the street. I charged downstairs, but two of the waiters held me. I was not to molest 'la très jolie mademoiselle,' they said. Blanche looked back over her shoulder. She was very frightened." He scowled broodingly. "I collect she thought it logical enough to take Avery away in my own curricle. She didn't know that Mount had seen me arrive and had tampered with the axle… She was good with the ribbons, but loved to spring her horses. When the axle parted, the curricle went off the road—and into the sea." He stared blindly into the fog, and Euphemia, scarcely daring to breathe, waited.
"Mount got to the wreckage first. The boy had been thrown clear, but Blanche was killed instantly. He took Avery and told the police later that the child had been lost in the sea. At first, I believed it. Then…" He drew one hand across his haggard eyes. "Mount wrote to me. He was quite explicit about what would happen to Avery if I did not follow instructions. He's been blackmailing me ever since."
There was a short silence, Hawkhurst haunted by memory, Euphemia variously horrified and perplexed.
"Garret," she said at last, "could you not have set agents to search for the boy?"
"I had one of the finest men in Europe hunting him for better than a year, but it was as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. All we were able to discover was that he was my son, that he was quite recovered from his injuries, and that Mount had him. Then, I received a warning. Diccon, my agent, had come close. If it ever happened again, Avery would die. As it was, I could be a
ssured my interference had resulted in the boy being… severely punished. I was powerless. After a while, I recovered some backbone and sent more men. I dared not go myself, for Mount had warned I was watched, and, if I sought them or let one word leak out, Avery would suffer terribly. I told my men that, if they even suspected they had located Mount, they were to do nothing, just let me know at once. But they never again caught up with him. All his demands were handled with painstaking cunning and never twice by the same method. The letter he sent the other day was my first intimation he was even in England."
Euphemia looked at him uncertainly, and Hawkhurst elaborated, "It was left at the Receiving Office in Down Buttery, on the morning you cut my sister's hair."
So that was why he had been so furiously angry. She said slowly, "I see… And Mount doesn't want you to marry, for fear you will get yourself an heir."
"More than that. He blames me for Blanche's death. The accident was intended for me, so by his reasoning I am responsible. At first, he used to write me letters describing his treatment of my son." His head lowered, the hand on his knee tightening. "Then, he warned me that, since I had killed his love, I would never be allowed to take a wife. I honestly believe he would murder the boy if I did."
"Oh, Hawk, my poor darling! How awful! But, should you not have told Lord Wetherby? The poor old fellow must grieve so. Surely, if he had some hope… ?"
"Good God, no! He worshipped Blanche. To learn what she really was would alone be enough to kill him, for I'm sure he would start to blame himself for the whole mess. Likely worry himself into the grave. And, as for Avery, how he doted on that child! To give him hope, hope that might prove false… Mia, had my grandfather been put through what I have had to face these last four years, he would be dead! He may look well, but he's had one seizure, and the doctor said shock or worry would be fatal."
"Yes, dear. But Archer thinks—"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly Page 25