Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (46 page)

"Simon!" Euphemia exclaimed, holding his hand very tightly.
"Ernestine has agreed to give you a divorce!"

"Yes! She has, by Jove! And, what is more, says she will wed
Admiral Sir Hugh Larchdale!"

"
What
?" Wetherby was practically
apoplectic. "Hugh must be all about in his upper works! Splendid
fellow! But must be old enough to be her—" He paused and added
thoughtfully, "Devilish plump in the pockets, come to think on it."

"Wherefore," said Buchanan, "I humbly beg permission, Mr.
Hawkhurst, for the honour of your sister's hand in marriage."

"Beg…
permission
? Why damme! You put the
cart before the horse, you curst young reprobate!" Striding around the
table, the Admiral's eyes alighted on his stern-faced grandson, and he
checked and waited in silence.

"Lord Wetherby is perfectly correct," said Hawkhurst woodenly.
"Your request is considerably belated, Buchanan."

Sir Simon reddened, but persisted earnestly, "Yet your
approval—er, I mean, your permission, and forgiveness, would make me
the happiest man alive, sir."

"And me… the very happiest girl," quoth a small and shaking
voice from the hall.

Hawkhurst whirled around. Sobs and muffled exclamations were
torn from his aunts.

Stephanie peeped around the door jamb, wearing cloak and
mittens, and with her hood fallen back from her fair curls. She looked
rather astoundingly lovely, her hazel eyes poignant with pleading.

Hawkhurst said nothing, regarding her with unyielding
disapproval.

"I know I had no right to come," she said bravely, "but— Oh!
My heavens!
Gary
! Dear one, you are ill! And…
Colley! Whatever—"

She started to run to him, her own hopes forgotten in her
anxiety, then remembered her disgrace and shrank back.

That gesture was too much for Hawkhurst. He tossed his cane
aside and held out his arms. "Come here, you… wicked wench," he choked.

With a stifled sob, she sped to him. Everyone was standing
then, hurrying to embrace and welcome the miscreants, every heart full.

Hugging his sister close, blinking rapidly, Hawkhurst reached
around her and thrust out his hand. His own eyes suspiciously bright,
Buchanan gripped it hard, and the happy crowd closed in about them.

The gothic letters of the sign were large, colourful, and
impeccably executed and read: "Please Follow the Guide." The first
footman bore it as though it had been a royal banner and led the little
procession along the hall. Candle sconces and lamps lit their way, but
the air was chill in the North Wing, and Wetherby grumbled that he was
dashed if he could see why they'd had to leave the warm drawing room
and traipse half a mile to be blasted well frozen!

Leaning to Euphemia's ear, Hawkhurst murmured, "What do you
know of this, my Unattainable Plotter?"

"I know how to 'follow the guide,' " she answered evasively
and was relieved to see Coleridge appear in the ballroom doorway,
wearing his paint-spattered smock over his evening dress. Hawkhurst's
brow darkened at the sight of such a garment, however, and the
Admiral's whiskers bristled alarmingly.

Well aware of these reactions, Coleridge was pale and nervous
but bowed to his guests, assuring them the fires were lit and that it
was warmer inside.

"And smellier!" Wetherby gave a snort and wrinkled his nose.
"Gad! What is that awful aroma? Smells like Dora's 'perfume'! Now, what
the deuce? Are we to see an entertainment, then?"

A long line was stretched across the centre of the brightly
lit room. Hung with sheets, it formed an impromptu curtain, held up at
intervals by lackeys, two of whom, having dipped liberally into the
wassail-bowl, looked as though they needed to be held up themselves.

Colley had slipped away and now fumbled through the curtains
to stand flushed and laughing before his small audience. "Mrs. Dora
Graham and Lord Coleridge Bryce," he announced bravely, then bit his
lip in a new flood of nervousness and, his colour fading, gulped, "are
p-proud to welcome you to… to their first… showing."

The lackeys allowed the curtain to drop to the floor, then
whisked it away.

Hawkhurst stood in stunned silence, gripping his cane very
tightly as he stared at the
objets d'art
so
carefully arranged for their inspection, and the only sound in the room
was Wetherby's awed, "By… thunder!"

Unable to endure the suspense, Coleridge moved to slip a hand
onto his cousin's shoulder. "Hawk, please do not be angry"

"Angry… !" breathed Hawkhurst, scarcely able to tear his eyes
from the various canvases. And, putting up his own hand to cover those
talented fingers, he said a gruff, "I will very likely
murder
you! How
dared
you allow me to believe you a mere
dabbler?"

Dora tottered dangerously amongst the exhibits and stammered,
"I-I
do
so wish someone would… c-come and look."

With cries of delight, they did so. One large canvas in the
very centre of the display was covered, but each of the other items
received their full share of admiring attention, so that the two
artists revelled in the compliments lavished upon them.

Slightly apprehensive, Euphemia watched the Admiral, who was
curiously examining the "banana" into which Dora had sneezed her
hairpins. "Half Moon Island…" he breathed in awe. "And all the dead
palm trees… ! By Jove, Dora! I never thought you was attending when I
told you of the place! What talent! Bless me if you ain't such a total
feather-wit, after all!" And he reduced his daughter to tears by taking
her hand and kissing it proudly.

"And only look!" cried Carlotta, taking up the "squidge" with
the two brooms, "It is that ridiculous bonnet Mrs.Hughes-Dering wore to
Lucinda Carden's garden party last summer! Dora! What a quiz you are to
be sure!"

Dora laughed happily, but concerned, Euphemia drew her aside
and whispered, "Dora, I hope you don't mind… I mean—"

"Sweet child, never worry!" the little woman rhapsodized.
"Only think,
anyone
can create an Adonis, but I
fashion nice
friendly
shapes, and each person can
see something different in them! Oh, is it not delicious?"

Euphemia agreed that it was and hugged her. For the next
half-hour and more the two artists happily accepted the unfeigned
admiration of their guests. Hawkhurst, demanding the right to kiss his
clever aunt, and braving a veritable storm of teardrops to do so, then
turned to Coleridge. The youth watched him tautly, and for an instant
they stood thus, eye to eye, then Hawkhurst said a low voiced, "Colley,
did you think I would mock… this?"

Bryce's flush darkened, and his lashes lowered.

"Of course, he did not," said Lady Bryce. "Although you
have
made fun of his aspirations this year and more, you must own it,
Garret." Hawkhurst flinched, and Carlotta added an injured, "Colley, my
love, you might at least have told your Mama!"

"Clever young scoundrel," said the Admiral, his eyes glowing
with pride. "What's under the sheet?"

"His very finest work!" Dora proclaimed. "Show them, dear boy,
and I think you should sit down again, Garret."

Hawkhurst seated himself obediently. Coleridge fumbled with
the sheet that covered his canvas and, worried by the inscrutable look
on his cousin's face, said with blushingly painful shyness, "This… is a
gift for someone I have ever honoured. And… loved."

He removed the covering with one swift movement. Amid the
shouts of admiration, Euphemia heard Hawkhurst's hissing intake of
breath. The portrait was even more magnificent now that it was
completed, and, gazing at it, she rejoiced with pride in both the man
so sensitively captured on the canvas and Col-ley's great talent.

"Devil take it!" gasped the Admiral. "The lad's a master!"

Quite unable to speak, Hawkhurst stretched out one hand.
Coleridge came to grip it strongly and reiterate his plea that Hawk not
be angry. "I wanted only to be sure I had something worth showing you.
If you still wish me to go to Spain, I—"

"Wretched… cub," Hawkhurst muttered unevenly. "You shall go,
well enough! You shall go with me to see Joseph Turner. We'll take this
to him and ask what he thinks you should do."

White as death, Coleridge gasped, "T-Turner… ? Do you… know…
Turner
!"

"Well, if he don't, I do!" The Admiral marched up to clap him
on the back. "Burn me if I didn't take you for a mutton-headed cawker!
I've never been more pleased to admit my error! By Jove!
What
a Christmas this has been!" He glanced to the side, and his bright eyes
softened. "Come along in, you rascal! What are you doing up at this
hour?"

Avery, clad in nightshirt and dressing gown and holding the
battered old bear in his arms, came timidly around the door. His
questioning eyes met his father's, a great beaming smile spread across
the small face, and he ran to lay his bear upon Hawkhurst's knees and
slip his hand into Euphemia's ready clasp.

"What were you about?" Hawkhurst forced his gaze from the boy
and took up the bear. "Tucking him into his secret place for the night?"

Avery nodded.

"Poor old bear. I cannot recall his name. It was an odd kind
of name. Avery called him after someone we know, Miss Buchanan. Now,
whoever was it?" He pondered thoughtfully, while his son watched him
with eyes brimful of love and laughter. "Something like… cushion… or
quilt, but that cannot be right. Bolster… ? I
think
it was Bolster?"

Avery giggled hugely. "Feather, Papa!" he corrected joyfully.
"Feather!"

An hour later, Euphemia closed the drawing room doors quietly
upon the rapturous occupants and wandered thoughtfully along the hall.
Surely there had never been so happy a group as shared Dominer this
Christmas night. Surely, never had there been such an outpouring of joy
as had greeted little Avery's spoken words. When the tears and laughter
and embraces were done, the Admiral had asked that Hawkhurst lead them
in prayers of thanksgiving. Garret's dear voice had been hoarse with
emotion, his fervent words near drowned by Dora's sobs.

Avery, too overwrought for many questions, was now fast
asleep. Hawkhurst had slipped away, partly, she thought, be-cause he
was exhausted, and partly, she suspected, to reassure himself that the
son he had been parted from for so long was truly safe in his own bed.

Euphemia sighed a little and, coming to the stairs,
encountered Ponsonby, who bowed and (being nobody's fool) enquired
whether he should serve tea at ten as usual, adding, "The fog seems to
be coming up again, Miss."

"Then perhaps you should ask Mrs. Henderson to have rooms
prepared for the Archers. Set tea back until half-past ten, if you
will. Oh, and Ponsonby, have you seen Mr. Hawkhurst?"

His eyes benevolent, he murmured, "In the gallery, Miss."

"Thank you. And, a very merry Christmas, Ponsonby."

"Thank you, Miss. It has, indeed, been a
very
merry Christmas."

Euphemia smiled at him and hurried up the stairs. A candle
flickered at the centre of the gallery, and she realized with a pang
that Hawkhurst sat on the bench before Blanche's portrait. She
hesitated a second but, upon moving quietly towards him, saw that the
large canvas had been taken down. He started up, reaching for his cane,
but she slipped swiftly onto the bench beside him, and he sat back
again.

"Are you quite done up?" she asked anxiously. "It must have
been thoroughly exhausting for you."

He smiled faintly. "Can one be done up by happiness, I
wonder?" Euphemia made no answer, and he said, "I feel rather awed, in
fact. So much has been given me. I've a whole new life, Miss Buchanan.
And I'm not at all sure I've a right to it."

How formal he sounded. A small pang touched Euphemia. He had
indeed a whole new life. One in which, perhaps, there would be no room
for her… She folded her hands meekly in her lap and was silent.

After a moment, he muttered thoughtfully, "I think I shall
hang my new portrait here. What do you say, Miss Buchanan?"

She shot an oblique glance at him. "I have no right to venture
an opinion, Mr. Hawkhurst. But, if I had, would say a most definite
no
!"

He turned his head to her with that familiar lazy smile that
made her yearn to be enfolded in his arms. "It
is
rather flattering, of course, but—"

"Very," she agreed mischievously. "Still, were the choice
mine, I would say it must go downstairs. In the Great Hall, near the
front doors."

"Good God! Would you frighten away all my newly discovered
friends?"

"Perhaps it would be a bit daunting, at that, but—Oh, Hawk, is
it not splendid? How very proud you must be."

The smile in his eyes faded, and his head lowered. "To the
contrary. I was never in my life so ashamed. How savage I must have
been to them, that they should hide such incredible talents… for fear I
would… laugh."

So that was why he had come here alone. She said, a little
crease between her brows, "Fustian! Those were Carlotta's words. Hawk,
she doesn't mean it. She cannot help it, I think. Why, the very reason
they worked so hard was in the hope they might please you."

"And have, God bless 'em! When I think of all the secrecy… how
they must have had to connive and smuggle their supplies into the
house."

"At dead of night," she nodded.

Startled, he gasped, "Never say so!"

"I saw them." She gave her musical ripple of laughter. "I
thought they had murdered you and were hiding your corpse!"

"And you supposed I had warranted such a fate, no?"

"Oh,
assurement
!"

"Wretched girl!" To emphasize this denunciation, he caught her
hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Foolish boy." She touched his crisp hair tenderly. "Instead
of grieving because you were, perhaps, a tiny bit impatient with
Colley, think rather of the love that went into that exquisite
portrait. For he captured more of the splendid man that you are than
any stranger could have done."