Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (3 page)

Buchanan leaned back in his chair, staring through the window
at the gray November skies and the frost that still clung to the
rooftops across the street. He had no wish to discuss it. He wished
only to return to the fighting—to forget himself and his troubles amid
the hardships, the incredible camaraderie, and the wild excitement of
battle. But Euphemia must be told the truth, and so, with slow
reluctance, he said, "I believe when I first went down, I… disappointed
her. For an instant, when she came into the drawing room, she looked at
me—" He bit his lip. "She said what a surprise to see me, when she had
supposed the new arrival was someone come to… to tell her she was
widowed."

Euphemia blenched and for a moment did not trust herself to
speak.

"On Tuesday," he went on quietly, "I asked her for a divorce."

Contrary to his expectation of an appalled protest, his sister
gave a cry of delight and spun around. "Oh! I am so glad! If she could
say such a thing as that, I would think she'd welcome a divorce!"

He smiled the faint, twisted smile that hurt her and shrugged,
"She has no fancy to become notorious, it seems."

"Oh! Has she not!"

"Her
affaires de coeur
are, so she tells
me, conducted with tact and discretion. Meanwhile, she likes her title,
and Buchanan Court, and the house on the Square. And she likes the
allowance I make her."

Euphemia moved closer to him, flinging out one hand in her
agitation. "Then in the name of God—stop it! Sell the house! And
divorce
her!
Heaven knows you have grounds enough!"

"Lord, how I wish it were that simple!" Buchanan's head bowed
onto one clenched fist, and he groaned, "I cannot! If you but
knew
how many nights I have lain awake… cursing my folly!"

"No, no, love," she cried, coming swiftly to kneel beside his
chair. "How shall you blame yourself? Tina was so very beautiful. Even
now, wherever she goes, people stare as though—"

"Yes. I know. And have you seen her when she rides in the
barouche with Johnny on one side of her and Belinda on the other, both
in velvet and lace, and her gown and bonnet to match? She looks holy
almost! A dream of motherhood such as would cause Lawrence to dash
madly for easel and palette. Whilst I—" He gave a despairing gesture.

"You? A splendid military record! A spotless reputation!"

"Would to God it were! Oh, Mia! You have the veriest clodpole
for a brother!" He drew a hand across his eyes distractedly, and
Euphemia waited, a small crease between her brows, and apprehension
tightening her nerves.

"That first summer you and Papa were in Spain," he said at
length. "I contracted a stupid fever. Do you recall? I came
home—totally unexpectedly—and found Tina with… with James Garvey."

"Good God! The Nonpareil? The same Garvey who is so close a
friend of the Regent?"

"The same. It was my first intimation that my lovely bride was
not the pure saint I had supposed." For a moment his eyes were very
sad. Then, as if recalling himself, he went on, "At all events, I threw
Garvey from the house. Bodily. He was enraged and swore he'd call me to
book, but never did. Tina and I quarrelled bitterly, and I took the
children—Belinda was four then, and John, two—and brought them here.
Mrs. Craft hired a nursemaid who was—young… and…" His eyes flickered
and fell, and he went on haltingly, "She was a taking little thing. And
I was angry, and lonely. No excuse, of course, but…" He stole a look at
his sister's face and, finding only compassion there, groaned, "How
could I have been so stupid? One of the maids told Ernestine's abigail
that I had installed my particular in the house. With my children! Tina
came at once, like an avenging angel. She brought her solicitor and—
and the
curate
! You should have seen her—she was
superb. Outraged purity, personified. The betrayed wife… the grieving
mother. I could do nothing. I had no legal proof of her behavior,
whereas she had a witness ready to swear to mine."

Momentarily aghast, Euphemia made a swift recovery and
exclaimed, "But surely this is ridiculous. Ernestine has borne three
children, only one of which is your own! If
that
were to be made public… !"

"I had leaves, don't forget. Whatever I suspect, I can prove
nothing. And I'll admit, Tina has been very discreet."

"Discreet!" she snorted. "Yet Wellington himself intimated—"

"Nothing that could be construed to be any more than a
partiality for you." He stood, paced restlessly to the fireplace and,
leaning his left hand on the mantle, muttered, "Even so, what a lovely
mess it would be, eh?
Her
revelations of my
'sordid depravity.'
My
accusations of her
adultery. Good God! Papa would turn in his grave! And the children,
poor mites, would be marked forever!"

Aching for him, she asked, "Does she threaten to drag it all
into the public eye?"

"Only if I persist in asking for a divorce. Can you not
picture her in court? Fixing a judge with those lovely eyes. Letting
her mouth droop in that helpless way she has? I would be made to seem a
fine villain! And does she persuade Garvey to bring influence to bear
against me through Prinny, as she says he will gladly do, I will be in
worse case, and likely have to resign my commission. We would be
ostracized. Can you imagine the effect upon the family? Great Aunt
Lucasta… ?" He shuddered. "And my brothers. And—you especially. Even
did you find your 'gentil and strong' love, he'd not marry into so
shocking a family!"

"Much I would care for that!" she cried loyally. "For was he
so easily put off, he'd not be the right one." But she was taking
inventory and it was not a pleasant task. One by one she counted off
aunts and uncles who might be counted on for an outraged reaction. As
to their immediate family, Robert, who was at Eton would likely think
it a great lark, but Gerald… She shrank a little. In his first year at
Cambridge, sensitive, shy, and vulnerable, Gerald would be horrified.
She felt crushed and defeated and forebore to mention their sister
Mary, whose husband was newly ordained. Helplessly, she asked, "Is
there someone else you care for?"

He shook his head, but a bleak look came into his eyes, and,
searching that pale, wistful face, she cried, "Oh,
mon pauvre
!
you still love her?"

He tried to look nonchalant, failed miserably and, walking to
the window, said in a tormented voice, "I think I despise her. I
know
I do. But… when I see her… She is so damnably beautiful, and I remember
those first months…" For a moment he was silent, then muttered heavily,
"Did I not tell you, Mia? You have the veriest clodpole for a brother."

Buchanan looked up from the copy of the
Gazette
that was propped against the marmalade dish and, with a lift of the
brows, enquired, "Whom do we know in Kent?"

"Not
in
Kent, dear," said Euphemia
patiently. She waved a scented sheet of paper at him. "You were not
listening. Aunt Lucasta writes to invite us to Meadow Abbey for
Christmas."

"Meadow Abbey ain't in Kent," he pointed out sapiently. "I can
see you need a change of scene, poor girl. Been in Town too long.
You're getting windmills in your attic!"

She laughed. "I admit that. No, Simon, do pray forget the
newspaper for a moment and pay heed to your addle-brained sister.
Should you purely loathe spending Christmas with Great Aunt Lucasta?"

He considered this carefully. It would be a change of scene
for both of them. On the other hand, it was a long way, and the winter
unusually cold. "What about the boys? And Mary, and that prosy fellow
she married?"

"Gerald and Robert can go straight from school, and Mary has
already accepted. Oh, Simon, it
would
be nice, do
you not think? The Abbey is such a lovely old place, and Aunt Lucasta
sets a magnificent table."

It was a telling stroke. "Yes, she does," he agreed. "But—it
ain't in—"

"
Kent
!" cried Euphemia, starting to her
feet.

Although startled by such vehemence, Buchanan also stood
politely. His surprise was heightened as a small boy tore across the
breakfast room to halt before Euphemia like a well-trained horse that
strains at the bit, yet knows it dare not take one step further.

Euphemia bent to smile into that glowing face and pull the boy
into a hug that was crushingly returned. "Welcome home!" she said
gaily. Then, detaching his clutch from her skirts, took him by the
shoulders and, turning him, added, "Simon, this is my page. Kent, you
must make your bow to my brother, Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan."

Utterly astonished, Buchanan responded to the mystifying hint
of warning in her eyes and, bestowing his charming smile upon the boy,
said, "How do you do, young fella? You'd best take off that scarf. It's
warm in here."

The grey eyes became huge in the child's thin, peaked face.
Having obediently unwound the scarf from about his neck, he bobbed a
nervous bow and retreated a step toward Euphemia's skirts, the
unblinking and awed stare still riveted to Sir Simon.

"Kent has been down in Surrey," said Euphemia. "Mrs. Craft
took him to her son's farm."

Baffled, he said, "How er—nice. Did you like the farm, Kent?"

A nod was his only reply.

"He loves animals," explained Euphemia, and again the boy
nodded.

"Well, that's splendid." The wide stare was beginning to
disconcert Buchanan and, wondering what in the deuce his sister wanted
with a page, and why she should treat him as though he were a long-lost
brother, he enquired, "What kind of animals did you find at Mr. Craft's
farm?"

A painful flush spread up the finely boned features until it
reached the thick, light hair. Euphemia reached to the sideboard, took
up a tablet and pencil and placed it on the table beside the boy.

Kent wrenched his eyes from Buchanan to look up at her
appealingly. She smiled encouragement. "Sir Simon will understand. Show
him how clever you are."

The pleading eyes fell, the lips trembled, but obediently, one
thin hand took up the pencil and with painful care printed, "Cow. Dux.
Chikens."

Over that downbent head, Buchanan met his sister's anxious
gaze and, his kind heart touched, said, "By George! Is that a fact?
Regular Noah's Ark! Have you seen the wild beasts at the Exchange?"

The child had proffered his report with his head bowed. At
these magical words, however, the eager eyes fairly leapt to search the
man's face. Tears glistened on the long curling lashes, and Buchanan
wondered whether that shame had been occasioned by the obvious lack of
education or the fact that he was mute.

"Kent? Are you in? Oh! You naughty boy!" Mrs. Craft appeared
in the doorway, her plump, usually good-natured face pink with chagrin.
"How dare you rush in here and interrupt Miss Buchanan and Sir Simon! I
do apologize, Miss. He ran from the hack before I could—" She checked,
for the effect of her words had been disastrous. Kent was cowering
back, one arm flung up as if to ward off a blow, while panting sounds
of terror issued from his white lips.

"The devil!" Buchanan expostulated. "What have you been doing
to the poor child, Mia?"

His sister, however, had already dropped to one knee, and was
murmuring, "It is quite all right. Do not be frightened. Nobody is
going to beat you."

"Beat him!" exclaimed the distressed housekeeper. "I never had
no such thought! Poor little fellow!" She bustled forward to slip an
arm about the small, shrinking form and, with motherly caresses and
soothing reassurances, led him away.

Buchanan pulled out Euphemia's chair for her and resumed his
own place. Picking up a piece of toast, he demanded, "What the deuce
was all that about? I vow, Mia, no sooner is my back turned than you're
at it again! Who is it this time? Some crossing sweep or link boy I
shall be required to find a place for? Now dashed if my coffee ain't
cold!"

Despite these grumbles, there was no anger in his face and,
undeceived, Euphemia poured out the offending coffee and, refilling his
cup, said, "He was a climbing boy and tumbled down the library chimney
while I visited my sister at the Rectory. He had no real name
apparently, and since I found him in Kent, that seemed as good as any
other."

Taking his cup, he frowned, "A climbing boy. Poor brat! That
devilish custom must be stopped. Should have been stopped years since."

"Indeed it should. How I pray that the men who allow such
wicked torture of innocents are reincarnated as just such helpless
victims of our 'civilization'! I wish you might have seen the child,
Simon. I was never more shocked. He huddled there in the corner of the
fireplace like a living skeleton, covered with soot, and fairly sobbing
with terror. But when I made towards him, he fainted dead away."

"And so you bathed and cared for him, and have taken him under
your wing," he said. But his eyes were approving, for all his teasing
words. "What did his master say?"

"A great deal. And Roger, of course, 'supported' me by folding
his hands and murmuring that the 'law is the law and one must not
interfere with the way of things for all is planned and ordained,' or
some such fustian!"

Buchanan snorted. "Prosy bore! How Mary ever came to wed such
a sanctimonious do-noth—" He closed his lips over the rest of that
remark, and then grinned, "I'll wager
you
took
care of friend sweep!"

"I told him I had little doubt but that the boy was stolen,
and as my brother-in-law had said, the law is the law and we would send
for the Watch at once and have the case investigated. The child's feet
were most horribly burned, and his poor little back bruised and cut
from beatings, while from the way his bones stuck out one might suppose
he'd not eaten for months! It was all I could do not to take my
sunshade to that wicked man's sides! And so I told him!"