Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly Read online

  "Dear Miss Buchanan," gushed Lady Bryce, "you have not met my son."

  Lord Coleridge's rather jerky bow and bashful response warmed Euphemia towards him, though it also brought the fear he would cut his cheek on his extremely high shirt points. However bosky he may have been the previous evening, he gave little sign of it now, only a slight puffiness under the eyes betraying him. He bore little resemblance to his mother, and not until her gaze rested on Miss Hawkhurst, did Euphemia see the family likeness. He had the same hazel eyes as the girl and the same rather thin face and long beautiful hands. Lady Bryce watched him with the clear hope he would say something clever. He slid one finger under the fearsome convolutions of his neckcloth, fumbled with one of the several fobs and seals at his waist, and observed that the heavy rains of last month must have caused the landslide.

  "That's what Garret said," Miss Hawkhurst agreed in her gentle voice. "He went up there again this morning, with Manners and two of the grooms."

  Lady Bryce arched her brows. "Did he now? I am amazed the poor fellow could manage it. He had such a time with his guests last night. He don't like it when they over-indulge, Miss Buchanan. I'd not have you think he condones such behaviour, for he always tells me afterwards that he is sorry they are so— er—rowdy."

  Bryce, staring fixedly at his napkin, said, "I did not hear any rowdiness last night, Mama."

  "But how should you, dear boy? You were long abed. But I was disturbed. Not that it matters about me, of course, and I am accustomed to it… But, to think of Miss Buchanan and Sir Simon, and that poor, poor child! It was unforgiveable, and so I told your cousin this morning. They were shouting under my windows at two of the clock, and, had I not feared I might take a cold—you know how prone I am to germs, dear Doctor Archer—I should have got up from my bed and opened the window to quiet them."

  Euphemia accepted a crumpet from the tray the butler offered, and he poured her coffee. Inwardly amazed that such a conversation should take place before the servants, she watched Bryce from under her lashes. He had aspirations to dandyism, all right; those shirt points and the grotesquely padded shoulders of his jacket attested to that. His head sank a little lower, but he said nothing. Hawkhurst very obviously had not betrayed him, and she could guess how that knowledge must mortify the boy.

  She found Dr. Archer observing her, a speculative expression in his deep eyes. "You are early abroad, sir," she smiled.

  "Stayed the night. My people know where to find me should the need arise. I'd have to check your brother's shoulder this morning at all events, and I want to look in on the boy. He's a frail little fellow."

  She had encountered his type before, and the very quietness of his manner alarmed her. "Yes. I thought him a trifle feverish just now."

  No die-away airs here, he thought. And, gad, what a fine lass! Far above mere prettiness! If he were only ten years younger… or twenty… Those great blue eyes were questioning him. And she was the type to want it straight out. "Inflammation of the lungs," he said bluntly.

  Miss Hawkhurst gave a little cry of dismay. Euphemia paled, for, although she had guessed Kent was sick, she'd not expected this. She reached out her hand instinctively, and Buchanan leaned to take it firmly and ask a quiet, "Serious?"

  "Of course, it is serious!" cried Lady Bryce. "It carried off my poor sister in only six days, and—"

  "Well, it will not carry off the boy," Archer interpolated, his gaze still on Euphemia. "He became thoroughly chilled hanging onto that branch, I don't doubt, but Hawk had the good sense to get him into a hot tub at once, and I think we've caught it quickly enough." Curiosity touched his eyes. "Fond of your little page, ain't you, Miss Buchanan? Well, he'll get good care here, I do assure you. But you'll not be able to move him for a week or two."

  Euphemia exchanged a troubled glance with her brother.

  "You must stay here," said Lady Bryce, her mind planning busily. "The boy would pine away without you."

  Buchanan thought that very likely, and his heart sank at the prospect of being compelled to remain in this house of infamy. He was too well bred, however, not to be shamed at once by such a graceless reaction. Not only had Hawkhurst saved his life, it also was beyond doubting that every hospitality would be extended to them. Irked with himself, he smiled ruefully at Miss Hawkhurst. "I fear that would be a dreadful imposition."

  "No, but it would be our very great pleasure, Sir Simon." The girl blushed as she spoke, and, thanking her, Euphemia thought abstractedly that Stephanie Hawkhurst was more taking than she had at first realized. That braided hair, however, which would be charming on a vibrant beauty like Deirdre Breckenridge, was too severe for so pale a countenance, and her lashes were a light gold that became invisible save when the light chanced to touch them, giving her eyes a naked look. A softer coiffure, a subtle use of cosmetics might—

  "I will send Neeley to Meadow Abbey," said Buchanan. "Would you wish me to write Great Aunt Lucasta a note, Mia?"

  Euphemia said she would write directly after breakfast, since she did not want Simon to use his right arm. She wondered what Hawkhurst would think of his new development. Last evening he had said, "I wish you may leave…" Well, if he became obnoxious, they would simply have to leave.

  "Oh! What a lovely change it will be for us to have house guests!" exclaimed Lady Bryce, clasping her hands theatrically. "However reluctant they may be! Only think, Miss Buchanan!You will very likely be here for my Musicale! It is only ten days distant. And meanwhile, we shall do all we can to make your stay here, if not exciting, at least not… unpleasant. I do trust my Fifi pleased you? I can tell she arranged your hair, for it looks very well today."

  From the corner of her eye, Euphemia saw a quirk tug at the corners of Simon's lips. And she says it all with such an innocent smile, she marvelled. "You are too kind, ma'am. I had expert assistance indeed, but the abigail who waited on me is called Ellie."

  "Ellie?" Lady Bryce turned a shocked gaze upon her niece. "Oh, Stephie! How could you have blundered so? I distinctly told you to send Fifi to Miss Buchanan, for our simple country girls would never do for a lady who has travelled so much about the world! Really, I cannot think what dear Miss Buchanan must think of us!"

  Blushing fierily, Miss Hawkhurst looked with dismay from her aunt to their guest, and Euphemia interjected lightly. "No, no, please! I cannot imagine anyone having been more perfect, for I ached so, and she applied a lotion to my bruises that has made me feel like new."

  "Only listen, Stephanie," purred my lady, patting her niece's hand. "For your sake, Miss Buchanan is so good as to overcome her natural reluctance to speak of so personal a matter. How much it will help you to be exposed to such sophistication." She turned to Euphemia, who was beginning to think herself quite a scarlet woman, and lamented in a lower but all too audible voice. "Poor child, shut away here—what chance has she to learn how to go on? I have so pleaded with Hawkhurst to give her a London season, but he will not hear of it! No, do not defend him, Stephanie! It is very naughty of him, for the years pass by so quickly, and, before we know it, all your brilliant potential will be suffocated until you become just another drab little country dowd!"

  "Good God, Mama!" Bryce protested unhappily. "You embarrass poor Stephie to death! Let be!"

  "Silly boy!" His parent slapped his wrist playfully. "My dearest niece knows very well I have only her best interests at heart!"

  Her "dearest niece" was all too crushingly aware of her total lack of any "brilliant potential" and, knowing that she was already "a drab little country dowd," kept her tearful eyes downcast, praying the earth might open and swallow her, her heated cheeks adding to her despair.

  Euphemia could have positively scratched the odious woman. Long ago, Tristram Leith had once laughed that his adored Mia could charm even gruff old General Picton into languishing at her feet, and now, revealing nothing of her vexation, she murmured a thoughtful, "Do you know, ma'am, I believe you have the right of it. Miss Hawkhurst has been hiding her light under
a bushel. But with very little effort I think she might surprise us all." She leaned forward and, placing her hand over the fingers clenched so tightly upon an inoffensive teaspoon, smiled, "My dear, will you do as your clever aunt suggests and have a cose with me this afternoon? I am sure we will find much to chatter about, though I do not promise to reveal all the witchcraft by which large and ordinary girls such as I wring offers from helpless gentlemen!"

  Buchanan laughed, and young Bryce threw her a look of warm gratitude, while Archer grunted and regarded Lady Bryce with sardonic triumph.

  Miss Hawkhurst, striving to speak, could not, but her eyes conveyed her thanks so humbly that Euphemia knew she could easily learn to love this gentle girl.

  Whatever plans Euphemia cherished for the beautification of Miss Stephanie Hawkhurst were destined to be postponed. Even as Lord Coleridge prepared to conduct them on a tour of the great house, a lackey came running to say that the little page was most distressed, and could Dr. Archer please come at once. Hastening upstairs after him, Euphemia found Kent tossing frenziedly, his blurred gaze turning to her with pathetic relief. The doctor's manner became so kindly that terror struck into her heart. He left, promising to send medicines, warning her the boy must get worse before he got better, and arming her with instructions on how to cope with possible emergencies. He had no sooner departed than the housekeeper bustled into the room. The neat, plump little Scotswoman proved a far cry from the disinterested individual Lady Bryce's casual remarks had implied. Nell Henderson was a pillar of strength, possessed of a kindly disposition, a merry good humour, and a knowledge of nursing that proved invaluable. She popped into the room regularly throughout that long morning, and at half past one, when the ailing child at last fell asleep, Euphemia yielded to her persuasions, returned to her bedchamber, and, having washed and changed clothes, went down to luncheon.

  Only Mrs. Graham and her stifling "perfume" awaited her in the smaller dining room. Mr. Hawkhurst, it developed, seldom ate lunch. In preparation for the Musicale, Lady Bryce had gone shopping in Bath, and Miss Hawkhurst had gone into Bristol on a long-planned visit to her old governess. Sir Simon, said Mrs. Graham, surreptitiously retrieving a scallop she had contrived to send darting into her saucer, had handed my lady a letter addressed to his great aunt, and, while she shopped, Lady Bryce's coachman would deliver it to that renowned grand dame. Euphemia said worriedly that she trusted Simon had not irritated his shoulder, but Mrs. Graham refuted this. "My sister took with her a groom and footman, her abigail, a coachman and two outriders, but Colley decided to ride part of the way beside her carriage, and your brother felt well enough to accompany him, my dear."

  "What?" exclaimed Euphemia, thunderstruck. "He never did!"

  "But, yes. They took the curricle. I saw them, leave."

  "If that is not the outside of enough! Simon had no business riding out in this weather, and with his wound so troublesome!"

  "As I tried to warn him. But did you ever know the man who would admit himself not quite up to par when another fellow was inviting him to go somewhere?" She signed and added, " 'For his friend he toiled and tried. For his friend he fought and died…' " Euphemia blinked at her incredulously, and Mrs. Graham tilted her untidy head and mused, "Oh, my, that doesn't sound very encouraging, does it?"

  "Who wrote it?"

  "Why I haven't the vaguest idea. But never mind about that. Eat up, dear Miss Buchanan. May I call you Euphemia? I did know your Papa so well. And you must call me 'Dora.' No, I insist! Drat these scallops! How elusive they are! There goes another!"

  It was an erratic meal at best, but after a while one grew accustomed to the heavy aroma, and Dora's conversation was so merrily idiotic that Euphemia found it difficult to be downhearted. It was as well she was enabled to forget her worries, for, when she went back upstairs, Kent was awake, coughing incessantly and in much discomfort. All she and Mrs. Henderson could do was to bathe that hot little body and see to it that the medicines were administered as the doctor had prescribed. Soon, Dora came up to "take a turn with the poor fellow" and succeeded in so fascinating him with her tale of a frog who developed an insatiable craving for bonbons that he was quiet for some time. As the afternoon waned, however, he became more and more distressed, and it was not until he dropped into an exhausted slumber just before six o'clock that Euphemia again felt able to leave him.

  She went downstairs in time to see Bryce and her brother come in from the rear of the house. Simon was laughing, but he looked tired and very cold, and she could have shaken him.

  Wearing a superb frieze riding coat, Hawkhurst strode through the front doors. He pulled off his gloves and, handing them to the footman, frowned and told Bryce with a flashing look of irritation that he should have had more sense than to take Sir Simon out driving on such a bitter day.

  Bryce ventured an anxious enquiry, to which Buchanan responded that he had thoroughly enjoyed it, adding a diversionary, "How's your page, Mia?"

  "Not at all improved, I fear. Dr. Archer is coming this evening, thank heaven."

  At this point two lackeys carried in some battered but recognizable pieces of luggage. Hawkhurst apologized that, although he and his men had spent most of the day at or near the scene of the accident, this was all they had been able to retrieve. One of the portmanteaux had split open, but the losses appeared negligible, and fortunately, Euphemia's jewel case proved to be intact.

  Climbing the stairs again, her relief at the recovery of her jewels was marred by the fact that Simon sneezed twice. This so wrenched his shoulder that, when she remonstrated with him, he requested irritably that she kindly not maudle over him, and that he felt splendid. Knowing him and his rare ill-humours, she restrained a cutting comment and feared the worst.

  By morning, having spent a frightening night with Kent, her fears were realized. Simon remained in bed, stricken with a very bad cold. With typical male perversity, having allowed not a whimper to escape him when a heavy lead musket ball had smashed his shoulder, nor once complained through the agonizing weeks that had followed, he was now the complete invalid, sneezing, snuffling, groaning, and calling down maledictions upon a malignant Fate, while never once admitting that his own folly had brought about his condition. Much as she loved her brother, Euphemia found herself quite out of charity with him and informed him roundly that he should be spanked for such irresponsible behaviour.

  Hawkhurst was no less incensed with Bryce, and that young man, having received a royal set-down at his guardian's hands, hurriedly took himself off and remained least in sight for the next several days.

  Those days were trying indeed for Euphemia. Simon was genuinely ill, and, despite her irritation with him, she was obliged to divide her time between the sickrooms, dreading lest his cold worsen into pneumonia or his wound become inflamed by reason of his violent sneezes. Kent, meanwhile, grew worse, the harsh, racking cough convulsing his small body, and his fever mounting. Mrs. Graham, Ellie, and the invincible housekeeper were reinforced by an endless succession of maids in caring for the two invalids, but, despite their devotion, Euphemia was the only one who could calm the child, and as time wore on she scarcely dared relinquish his burning little hand, but what the hollowed eyes would fly open in a terrified seeking for her.

  Shortly after two o'clock on the third night, he became so weak that she was sure the end was near. Thoroughly frightened, she roused Ellie, who was dozing in the chair, then ran downstairs in search of Hawkhurst. Candles still burned in the library, but the pleasant room was empty. She was about to pull the bellrope and despatch a servant to wake him when she heard voices outside. Drawing her shawl closer about her, she stepped onto the terrace. A chaise with the door wide stood upon the front drive. Two young gentlemen, decidedly inebriated, clung to each other as they viewed Hawkhurst's laughing and clumsy attempts to lift a reluctant beauty into the vehicle. He placed her upon the step, but was staggered as she launched herself into his arms again with a shriek of hilarity. "Not so loud!" he urged. "We've
a sick child in the house!"

  His inamorata fairly squeaked her astonishment, and one of the gentlemen hiccoughed, "Ch-child? You? Wha' th' deuce? Did y'lovely Blanche bring y'brat back t'haunt you, Gary?" It was an ill-judged remark, and the effect on Hawkhurst was startling. He abandoned the lady and turned on his foxed friend like a fury, one fist whipping back.

  At any other time, Euphemia would have immediately retreated. Now, illogically angered that he should be thus occupied when she so needed him, she ran forward, calling his name. That lethal fist dropped, and he spun around, an expression of dismay crossing his flushed face as he beheld her. Striding forward then, he took the hands she stretched out and searched her pale, tired face. The moment she felt that strong clasp, she felt comforted, a sensation that deepened when he said with quiet authority, "Go back inside at once. I'll bring Hal."

  His voice was only slightly slurred, and she thought thankfully that he was not so drunk as to be stupid. His friends were, however, and stared in total, befuddled silence as she ran, shivering, back into the house. Climbing the stairs, she wished Hawkhurst had sent a groom to Down Buttery. He would likely have difficulty retaining his seat, much less be able to ride faster than a walk. Moments later, she heard a thunder of hooves upon the drive, and was contrarily appalled by such headlong speed. The moon was dim tonight, and to ride so fast was to invite disaster. She sat bathing Kent's burning face, counting the minutes, and praying that Hawkhurst's recklessness might not result in his being carried home a corpse.