Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (8 page)

Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan sighed and, opening his eyes,
saw beyond the hand that waved hartshorn under his nose a plain but
worried face and a pair of speaking hazel eyes. "Poor young man," said
this disembodied apparition gently. "Are you feeling better now?"

"If he ain't," growled Archer, "he damned well should be!"

"I am indeed," Buchanan affirmed faintly. And with a twinge of
unease added, "I trust I was not a nuisance."

"You were very brave," said Miss Hawkhurst, in her shy fashion.

"Brave enough to warrant something more heartening than that
lavender water you slopped over him, Stephie!" The doctor grinned and
thrust a full wineglass into his patient's rather shaky hand.

"
Stephanie
!" The shriek made Buchanan's
hand shake even more violently, causing him to choke and splash some
excellent cognac onto the fresh bandages Dr. Archer had just secured
across his chest.

A plump, untidy figure rushed into the room, a lady with a
wealth of rather doubtful red hair that seemed determined to escape
both cap and hairpins, giving her a decidedly wild appearance. She wore
a very large robe of dark blue velvet, the hem of which looked as
though it had been stitched in place by several seamstresses, each
having a different eye for length. From the basket in her hand, silks,
a pair of scissors, a thimble, and a paper pattern tumbled, one after
another, for as she came, she constantly tripped over her uneven hem
with a resultant hop, skip, and stagger that caused Buchanan to view
her with considerable astonishment.

"You are in here!" gasped the newcomer redundantly, her pale
blue eyes starting out in alarm. "With a strange gentleman who is—" She
tripped, dropped the basket altogether, clutched for a chair which
toppled into an occasional table, sending a bowl of mint confections
hurtling across the carpet, and, righting herself, finished, "Whoops!
Unclad!"

"Oh, my God!" moaned Archer,
sotto voce
.

"Aunt Dora," smiled Stephanie fondly.

Scrambling to his feet, Buchanan swayed and uttered a
horror-stricken, "I r-really .. am not…"

"Good heavens! Do not stand! Poor, poor soul! I heard a
gallant soldier-man had come amongst us!" The lady rushed to his side
imploring, "Sit down, I do entreat! Stephanie! Do not look, dear child!
Avert your eyes!" And flinging up one arm dramatically, she sent two
hairpins flying, one of which splashed into Buchanan's wine.
"Sometimes," she intoned, "too hot the eye of heaven shines!"

Archer turned away with a muffled snort, and "Aunt Dora"
lowered her arm and said with a dubious, "Hmmm. That may not quite fit
the situation, do you think, Stephie?" Her cheeks very pink, Miss
Hawkhurst murmured that the quotation was very nice. "All right," said
the newcomer, seemingly cheered. "Now off with you!" and fairly swept
her niece from the room, closing the door after her and leaning back
against it, quite out of breath from her efforts.

"My boy," breathed the doctor, whose opinion of his patient
had escalated considerably during his surgery, "you are about to meet a
rara avis
. Gird up thy loins—else you'll not
survive the encounter!"

"There!" gasped the
rara avis
, with
pleased satisfaction. "Well, now…" And forward she came again, with
that eager gait that was somewhere between hare and hounds, and, having
all but toppled in the scared Buchanan's arms, beamed down at him. "How
may we help? What needs to be done, Harold? Name it! I am here!"

She was very much here, as a consequence of which Buchanan
drew as few breaths as possible, yet felt half-strangled, so
pervadingly acrid was the lady's perfume. His expression brought an
appreciative gleam to the physician's eye. "Allow me," Archer
volunteered. "Mrs. Dora Graham, Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan. No,
begad! Sit still, sir!"

"Please do! Oh,
please
do!" said Mrs.
Graham, her plump hands fluttering as she lurched over a curtsey. "Are
you Army Buck's boy? Ah, I see you are. Where's his shirt, Harold? Oh
dear… cannot wear
that
! Send for a maid. Oh,
never mind! You are
slow
, Harold.
Slow
!
One might suppose you were growing old!" Trotting sideways towards the
bellrope, she half turned to flash the doctor a saucy smile, tripped
over a footstool and fell with a squeal onto an occasional chair.

Beginning to grin, Buchanan again started up and was again
pushed back as Archer strode past to restore the lady to her feet.
Archer sighed, "Dora, how you have possibly managed to survive is a
source of constant amazement to me. I vow you will rush and tear and
fall and crash through life—and outlive the rest of us by fifty years!"

"Oh, I do hope you are mistaken," she said cheerfully,
striving to restore order to her flying hair and leaving it wilder than
ever. "I should purely despise to be left all alone with no friends
around me. Did you know your Papa proposed to me? No—-not
your
Papa, Harold! Good gracious, I should only have been… What are you
saying? I'm not
that
old! Now where was I? Oh—the
bell, of course." She trotted towards the pull, gave it a solid tug and
let go so abruptly that it rebounded into the air, the tasselled end
becoming entangled in a wall sconce. She frowned at it. "Foolish thing.
I cannot get you down, you know."

Archer turned away, his eyes rolling ceiling-ward.

"You were acquainted with my father, ma'am?" asked Buchanan
eagerly.

"Indeed, I was." She came hurrying back, just barely missing
the footstool the doctor whipped from her erratic path. "What a devil
he was, to be sure! Did he ever tell you about the time in Paris when
my chair broke and he and the toothpick designer fell into the Seine?
No, of course, he would not, for that was when he had that delicious
opera dancer under his protection, and—"

"Dora!" the doctor admonished, although his eyes danced with
mirth.

She giggled. "Oh, I always forget that we ladies are not
supposed to know such things. But, in truth I—Oh, my dear young man,
you look so pale. Drink up! Drink up!"

"Yes,
do
drink up," urged Archer
fiendishly.

Buchanan raised his glass, encountered the hairpin, and froze
for only an instant before nobly sipping his wine.

"A true hero," murmured the doctor, pulling up a chair for
Mrs. Graham.

She sank into it. "We must get you to your bed at once. That
is very good cognac, you know. Does it not suit your taste? Poor
fellow, I should enjoy a teensy sip, Harold dear."

Archer crossed to pour her a glass even while teasing her that
sister Bryce would not like to see her take brandy.

Mrs. Graham slanted a guilty glance towards the door. "No, but
she is not here, is she? So I may be as naughty as I wish." She gave a
merry little laugh. "Oh dear! I should not have said that. Ah, thank
you, Harold. Wherever is the maid, I wonder. Poor Sir Simon, you must
be freezing. Put his jacket around him, Harold. No, I shall do it. Oh
my now I've spilled wine on you. Never mind, we can clean you up in no—"

"
Whatever
are you doing, Dora?"

In the act of putting down her depleted glass, Mrs. Graham
gave a small gasp and swung around, "I—er—only came to help, Carlotta,"
she stammered guiltily.

Lady Bryce paused on the threshold and, surveying the havoc,
pressed a hand to her cheek. "Alas! So I see. Which is precisely why I
requested you should not do so." Her gaze came to rest on her
sister-in-law's wineglass and lingered pointedly. "What a pity… Poor
dear, I do not doubt you
meant
well."

Mrs. Graham blushed and moved back. Buchanan met her eyes and
smiled warmly, and she gave him a look of such pathetic gratitude that
he was reminded of the devoted but disastrous spaniel puppy he had once
owned.

My lady had been followed by two maids to whom she turned and
said sweetly, "Please try to set some of this frightful chaos to
rights. It is so upsetting for an invalid."

Buchanan was far more upset by the curious and sympathetic
stares of the maids and pulled his jacket tighter, as Dr. Archer, his
face completely wooden, performed brisk introductions. Lady Bryce
extended her hand. "Poor Sir Simon, I do apologize for all this. How
very
foolish you must fancy us."

He fancied a good deal, but he was feeling a little steadier
now and, having already come to his feet once more, negotiated a clumsy
left-handed handshake and assured her he was most grateful.

"Despite what you might be pardoned for imagining," she said
with a deprecating little laugh, "this is not quite a madhouse. So soon
as you are able, you shall be assisted to your room, which—I know you
would wish—adjoins that of your sister." The doctor tossed her an
irritated frown, and serenely unabashed she observed that, "One must be
truthful, you know, my dear Hal."

One of the maids was sent running in search of a suitable
dressing gown, and, when this was brought, my lady personally assisted
Buchanan to don the garment, constantly admonishing him to have a care,
yet her movements were so brisk that the doctor intervened to demand
his patient be allowed to get to his bed before he was again reduced to
a state of total collapse.

Supported by Dr. Archer, Sir Simon was conveyed into the
magnificence of the Great Hall. As the door closed behind them, he
heard Lady Bryce say in her gentle fashion, "My dear foolish Dora,
whatever
are we to do about your hair? And— that perfectly frightful scent… ?"

A soft scratching at the door awoke Euphemia. Kent was fast
asleep, and the clock on the mantle indicated that only an hour had
passed since Lady Bryce had left. She limped stiffly over to the door
and discovered her brother, clad in a long, quilted, black dressing
gown that brought an appreciative sparkle to her eyes.

"Let me in quickly!" he urged. "That molten physician believes
me tucked into my bed!"

"As you should be, Machiavelli!" she said softly, drawing him
into the room nonetheless. "Are you—" And she stopped. He had been
silhouetted against the lighted hallway, and she'd not seen the sling
that again supported his arm. She led him to the chair she had just
vacated and, occupying the other one, searched his face. His grin was
bright as ever, but the weary look about the eyes confirmed her fears,
and she asked a compassionate, "Was it very bad, dearest?"

"Lord, no. But a fine bumble broth we've cropped into, eh?"

It was typical that he should not reproach her now that they
really were involved, and, just as typically, she admitted, "All my
fault, I
am
sorry!"

"Stuff! Who could have guessed the whole blasted hillside
would choose just that moment to give way? I cannot like it though,
Mia. When we get back to civilization you're not to breathe a word to
anyone that we came here. Wouldn't do your reputation any good, y'know,
however we explained it away."

"I might not have a reputation to be concerned about, had it
not been for our Bluebeard," she pointed out, a pucker disturbing her
smooth brow. "What do you make of him, love?"

"
Make
of him? Gad! All I want is to make
away
from him! I'll admit we stand indebted to the man, but did you mark his
face? Even harder than I recollect. And that chin! I'll go bail he'd
balk at nothing!"

"He certainly did not balk at risking his life for Kent," she
said quietly. "Though why he should take so desperate a chance to help
someone he'd never seen and yet savagely murder his own son…" She gave
a shrug of bafflement. "Simon, are you
sure
! Was
it ever really proven?"

Buchanan frowned a little. "Do not be blinded to what he is,
Mia. I recall he was used to have a way about him that charmed the
ladies— God knows why. What's all this about Kent?" He glanced to the
bed anxiously. "Not in very bad case, is he?"

"Scraped, and badly bruised, and terribly frightened, poor
little fellow. But the doctor says that, does he stay free of fever, we
should be able to leave tomorrow." She recounted what had transpired on
the hillside, omitting nothing, nor yet embellishing her tale. Knowing
her, Buchanan was more impressed than he would have cared to admit and,
when she finished, gave a low whistle. "By George! I can see why you
would be at
Point Non Plus
! Don't add up at all,
does it?" He moved uncomfortably as he spoke, and the throat of the
dressing gown parted a little.

"You said it was not very bad!" cried Euphemia, catching a
glimpse of thick white bandages, "It looks—"

He grinned boyishly. "Oh, no! Do not go into the boughs! I've
had enough ladies fluttering over me! What with mints all over the
carpet, hairpins in my cognac, chastised bell pulls, and young damsels
viewing my nakedness—"

"Good God! What on earth… ?"

He chuckled, and told her, succeeding in so lightly sketching
the scene of his ordeal that she was reduced to soft but helpless
laughter. "You know, Mia, I could not help but like Miss Hawkhurst,
though she's a poor little dab of a female. And I felt sorry for the
fat lady, Mrs. Graham, even if she has…" He hesitated and finished
rather guiltily, "… quite an—er—air about her, on top of all else."

Intrigued, Euphemia echoed, "You mean she uses a poor scent?"

"A hunting pack might love it. But, Jove! Do you feel obliged
to repay Hawkhurst, your service might be to persuade the lady to
abandon that eau de dry rot, or whatever it—" He checked as a soft
knock sounded at the door.

"Oh, dear," sighed Euphemia. "I pray it is not Lady Bryce."

In response to her call however, it was not her ladyship but
their host who entered. He was dressed for dinner, his cravat a
masterpiece, and a jacket of dark blue superfine hugging his wide
shoulders like a glove and bringing a gleam of admiration to Buchanan's
eyes. The ugly graze on his forehead was surrounded by a blackening
bruise, but he looked alert and well rested. Raising a jewelled
quizzing glass, he turned it lazily from brother to sister and drawled,
"Safety in numbers?"