Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (37 page)

Despite the words, it sounded like an ending. Her voice was
uncertain, and tears glittered on her lashes. Not until that moment had
Euphemia realized how deeply fond she had become of this gentle girl;
nor that her affection was as fully returned. They hugged one another
tearfully, then Stephanie mumbled that she simply must go and see
Garret and left brother and sister alone.

"Well," said Buchanan brightly. "Ready to be off, love? Great
Aunt Lucasta must be in a rare taking. Save for the fog, I've no doubt
she would have come with a blaze of trumpets to rescue us from this
house of infamy."

Euphemia responded just as light-heartedly, but the deception
was pierced, and she was suddenly swept into a fierce and rare hug.
Reciprocating, she then leaned back in her brother's arms, looking up
at him wonderingly.

He let her go and said with a rather strained laugh, "Sorry,
but I just cannot endure to see you so determined to be brave. He
will
come after you, Mia. You are not losing him forever, you know."

Long after Ellie had closed the bed-curtains and left her,
those words haunted Euphemia. Would Hawk come after her? Or, as soon as
she was gone, would he limp into his curricle and drive to some remote
spot where she might never find him? Worse, would he join up once more?
Wellington stood in urgent need of experienced cavalry officers, and he
would certainly be welcomed. The thought so terrified her that she sat
bolt upright in bed, staring with wide and fearful eyes at the bedpost.

It was no use—she was far too distraught to sleep. She swept
back the curtains and lit the candle. Half past twelve… She took up the
book she had selected from the library and wasted an hour reading words
that barely broke into the anxieties that crowded her mind. She closed
the book at last and set it aside. Perhaps if she had some warm milk
she would be able to go to sleep. But to wake Ellie at half past one
o'clock seemed unkind. She stepped into her slippers, donned her warm
dressing gown, and having ensured that her cap was neatly disposed over
her curls, took up her candle and went downstairs.

A lamp, turned down low, still burned beside the massive front
doors, but that flickering glow was the only sign of life. She trod
softly along the Great Hall, admiring the sweep of the plastered
ceiling and the perfect lines of this dear old house that the inspired
architect had managed to make both palatial and welcoming. Crossing the
central hall, her slipper caught on a fold of the rug, and the heel
curled under her foot. She crossed to the long teakwood chest near the
front doors, to right matters. A letter lay in the jade salver.
Glancing at it as she set down the candle, she saw the superscription:
"To Miss Euphemia Buchanan." The printing looked familiar, but why
would Simon be so formal, or leave a letter here for her? Curious, she
took up the folded paper. Foolish boy, he should have known it would
not be given to her until morning, when she would see him anyway. She
broke the seal, and read:

My Dearest Mia:

Do you remember our little chat before the Musicale? I told
you that I am a very ordinary fellow, and that someday you would have
to admit I've more than my share of failings. Best of all sisters, I
fear that day has come, for I am seizing my chance for happiness and
thereby abandoning you to a most difficult situation.

Perhaps you have already guessed that Stephanie and I are
desperately in love.

Euphemia clutched at the table, her heart seeming to stop
beating. Blinking dazedly, she read on,

Please believe that I have not lied to her. I am not quite
that base. She knows Tina will never give me a divorce, but has
consented to elope with me regardless.

"Oh… my… God!" moaned Euphemia, pressing a hand to her temple.
He
could
not! Not Simon? Through a haze of tears,
she was able to make out,

I may be kicked out of the 52nd. I don't know. With the help
of Leith, and the support (I pray) of John Colborne, I hope to retain
some rank. I am not pressed for funds, at least, and Stephanie will
never have to know want. I have attempted to explain to her what she
will
have to face, but her regard for me is such that she refuses to be
intimidated by that prospect.

Please believe that I deeply regret having to resort to this
reprehensible flight. I would by far prefer to meet Hawk-hurst on the
field of honour, which he would, of course, demand. But I have come to
the conclusion that a duel could only make a difficult situation worse.
Were either of us killed, all four lives must be wrecked, and what
would that serve?

I abandon you, my loved sister. I run like a craven when my
benefactor is crippled and ill. For this, I feel total shame. But no
shame can compare to the joy of having found the lady I can truly love
with all my heart, and who loves me in return.

I am comforted by the knowledge that love has come to you
also, and that with so fine a gentleman as Hawkhurst to care for and
protect you, someday you may perhaps forgive,

Your unforgivable, Simon.

How could she have been so blind? Euphemia choked on a sob and
let tears flow unchecked. How could she have been so foolish as to
suppose Simon was being "kind" in escorting Stephanie? Or think the
girl's new radiance was purely the result of her changed appearance?
Poor Hawk, so cruelly bedevilled by Fate, must know more sorrow! And
whatever could she find to say to—

"So you could not sleep either, my Unattainable lady."

The deep voice behind her sent her eyes flying open. She
clutched the letter to her bosom, her heart thundering with fear. If he
discovered this, he would go after them, hurt or no! Nothing, no one on
God's earth would stop him! He would catch them, she had no doubt of
it. And Simon would die!

Hawkhurst had seen her start and gently begged pardon for
having alarmed her. Her throat was dry, her lips stiff, but she
must
answer! Furtively, she dashed the tears away, swung around, and,
fighting to sound lightly scolding, said, "Garret! Whatever are we to
do with—"

He was leaning on his cane, his face tired and wan. But
hobbling closer he demanded, "What is it? You are white as death."

The telltale letter concealed beneath a fold in her dressing
gown, she replied, "How should I be otherwise, love? For we leave here
tomorrow."

"I know it," he sighed. "And I wish, with all my heart…" He
stopped, his narrowed gaze searching her face in the dimness. Perhaps
only the eyes of love would have detected the gleam on her lashes, but
Hawkhurst loved greatly. "You have been weeping!" His hand shot out to
grip hers. "And why do you tremble so? Here's more than grief! You are
petrified! Did you think I would not know? What is it? What have you
there? Another letter? Gad! It is a deluge! Stop seeking to protect me,
for the love of heaven! Give it me!"

"No!" she gasped, stumbling backward, "It is not—"

But as she twisted away, he groaned, swayed, and grabbed for
the table. At once her arms were about him. And as swiftly, he had the
letter.

"No!" she sobbed, snatching at it. "Hawk, that was despicable!
You tricked me!"

"Of course," he said, straightening and leaning against the
table as he held her away with one hand. "I will not have you upset
by—" His words trailed off as he saw the superscription, and he started
to return the letter, but it unfolded, and, even as she again reached
out eagerly, his attention was caught by his sister's name. He frowned,
pulled his hand back, and his eyes flashed down the page. "Now, damn
his rotten soul!" he gasped. "That
bastard
!" He
crumpled the letter, flung it to the floor, and wheeled about.

Galvanized into action, Euphemia sprang after him and caught
at his arm. "Hawk! If you love me, I beg of you—"

With a savage wrench he sent her staggering. "Save your
breath! Do you think that sweet sister of mine has the slightest idea
of what it is like to be
really
scorned? Well,
I
do, by God! And she'll not live that hell whilst I can prevent it! Stay
back, Mia!"

But she would not and, sobbing, pleading, clinging to him,
contrived at last to grip his cane and, leaping away, sent it spinning
across the hall, then sobbed her anguish as he sank, flinching, to one
knee.

"Hawk, oh, my darling, I beg… I
implore
you! Do not try to get up! Hawk, you will break the stitches! I love
you! Hawk, I
love
you! Please,
please
,
give them their chance!"

His face convulsed, he came somehow to his feet, reeled to the
wall, and tugged the bellrope. "He is not… worth… your tears," he said
breathlessly. "If I have to crawl, I'll not see him drag her down… with
him. He'll rot in hell first!"

A sleepy footman yawned into the hall, checked, than ran
forward.

Euphemia fled. Five minutes later, clad in her warmest habit,
her fur-line pelisse flying out behind her, she ran to the back stairs.

Lights gleamed in the stables. The grooms, half clad, were
harnessing a magnificent pair of matched greys to a racing curricle. In
dressing gown and nightcap, Manners was shouting, "When you're done,
turn 'em to the side road!"

One of the grooms checked, staring at him in dismay. "But it
ain't repaired, Mr. Manners. The bridge ain't safe! Mr. Garret
wouldn't—"

"Oh, yes, he would! Do as I say, and be ready for the master.
I'm going to get dressed. Don't let him leave without me!"

Euphemia ran to intercept him. "Manners! Do you love him?" He
halted, staring his incredulity, and she seized his arm, shaking it in
her frenzy. "If you would not see him complete the ruin of his life
this night, help me in!"

"In… the curricle… Miss?" he faltered.

"Yes! Oh, Manners, I
know
you love him.
Help
me! I beg of you!"

The grooms were hanging desperately to the heads of the greys
who, because of the fog, had been stabled for many days with little
exercise. Euphemia ran to the side of the vehicle, and, handing her up,
his face pale with anxiety, Manners groaned, "He'll have my hide for
this!"

"In here now! Beside me!" she said tersely. "Quickly! Lean
forward, so he does not see me!"

Moaning, he did as she commanded. "Miss, are you sure… ?"

"I love him too. Do you think I would do this, else?"

Manners snatched off his nightcap with a trembling hand as
Hawkhurst limped from the house, pulling on his gloves and leaning on
the arm of a befuddled Bailey, who wore a startling red dressing gown
over his nightshirt.

"Put the Mantons under the front seat!" rasped Hawkhurst, and,
as the valet obeyed, then attempted to fasten the top button of his
master's many-caped driving coat, he cried, "Have done! Manners, your
hand!" He clambered up, gasped out a pained oath, then ejaculated,
"Dammit! Why in the devil are you not dressed? Get down, man! I'll not
have pneumonia on my conscience in addition to—" And he checked in
sheer, stunned shock as Manners jumped out, thus revealing the
white-faced girl who sat there.

"Hell and damnation!" roared Hawkhurst, recovering. "Get down,
madam!"

"I will not!" she flashed defiantly.

"Then, by God, I'll put you out!"

He bent towards her. "Stand away!" cried Euphemia and swung
the whip she held in a wild, snaking crack over the heads of the horses.

The greys reared, screamed, and plunged. The grooms jumped for
their lives. Hawkhurst, caught off balance, grabbed the reins with one
hand and the side with the other, and somehow managed to avoid being
thrown out. But there was no stopping the team. They bolted, wild with
nerves, excitement, and high-bred nonsensicality.

Clinging to the side in heart-stopping terror, for several
minutes Euphemia was sure they must both die. But, sobbing for the
breath that was swept from her by the rush of air, she realized at last
that the grim-faced man beside her, far from attempting to slow them,
was urging them on, his keen eyes fixed upon the road ahead, his hands
sure and firm on the reins.

The quaint old bridge she had once admired was directly ahead:
the bridge that was not yet properly repaired! "Hawk!" she screamed.
"Stop! You'll kill us!"

"You should've thought of that before!"

She shot a terrified look at him. He had lost his hat when he
almost fell at the start. The wind had whipped his hair into a tumbled
untidy darkness about his pale face, and he looked wild and unyielding.
The bridge shot towards them, the curricle looking twice as wide as
that narrow span. "Do you feel the need," he shouted, "pray!"

She prayed. A deeper rumble of wheels, a wild jolting, and
they were across. Prom somewhere behind them, she thought to hear a
startled yell, fading swiftly into the night.

It was a race against time now. A mad, plunging, reckless
nightmare of speed. A scattering of cottages appeared distantly, flew
towards them, and were gone. Euphemia's eyelashes were blown back into
her eyes, and her hair was whipped about until it all came down and
screamed out behind her. Her hands clutched at the side until they were
numb. Her feet were braced against the front panel, and she wondered
how Hawk could brace himself with that injured leg. The curricle rocked
around curves and flashed between hedgerows at what seemed impossible
speed, but always Hawkhurst's sure hands guided the thundering greys
with hair's-breadth precision. And gradually Euphemia's terror gave way
to exhilaration. Lips parted, eyes shining, she leaned forward, gazing
into the night, watching trees and barns and hayricks loom out of the
darkness, shoot at them, and whip past.

They had long since left the Dominer preserves, and now turned
onto a main road. A sleepy village hurtled by, and scant moments later
another loomed up and was gone. Bishops Cannings, she thought.
Hawkhurst left the road and headed across the country. He must be mad!
Surely he'd never dare go through the forest at night? Instead, they
bumped onto a road again, and soon a mail coach approached, challenging
them for more than its share of the narrow surface. Euphemia shrank,
but Hawkhurst, his jaw set, held the greys relentlessly straight. A
horn blared stridently, a howl and a stream of curses, wheels that came
so close they shaved the hubs of the curricle's wheels. Screams and
yells, and the six-in-hand broke into wild, rearing confusion. A harsh
laugh from Hawkhurst, and they were clear. Weak in the knees, Euphemia
sat and shook. No more traffic now, only the jolt and ramble and pound
of their own flight. On and on, until her eyes smarted from the
buffeting of the icy wind, and she closed them briefly.