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

Obedient to her aunt's suggestion, Miss Euphemia Buchanan
patted an errant curl into place, yet paid little more heed as her
worthy companion prattled comfortably on about the delights of the
evening ahead. The large carriage slowed as it edged into the long line
of vehicles wending their way along Hill Street. Flambeaux blazed
through the cold night air, hooves clattered, and wheels rumbled, but
Miss Buchanan neither saw the one nor heard the others. Her fine,
delicately arched, and only slightly darkened eyebrows were drawn into
a faintly worried frown, her gloved fingers rearranged the rich folds
of her fur pelisse nervously, and her thoughts—instead of being fixed
with anticipation on the Hilby ball—wandered to the Peninsula. And how
nonsensical, to worry so! She was a soldier's daughter, more—a
soldier's daughter who had campaigned with her Papa and should
therefore know better than to be blue as a megrim and indulging fears
that were doubtless as deplorable as they were unwarranted. Simon was a
splendid officer; he was probably sitting down merrily to dinner with
his friends at this very moment, with not a thought in his head for
either the dangers of the war or the sister who fretted for him in
far-away London.

Miss Buchanan tossed her glowing head and, impatient with her
dismals, entered belatedly into her aunt's rather one-sided
conversation.

In its appointed time, the carriage arrived at the red carpet
beside which an excited crowd waited. The steps were let down, Miss
Buchanan and her aunt were handed reverently to the flagway and, having
given the onlookers cause for another burst of envious admiration,
passed inside.

The Hilby mansion, if not the largest house on Hill Street,
was certainly the most luxurious. Old Zebediah Hilby had amassed a
fortune during the perilous days of Cromwell and had been shrewd enough
to hang onto it. His descendants had combined his flair for finance
with an appreciation of the good things of life. Not all their excesses
had been able to put a dint in the fortune, however. As it was handed
down from generation to generation, it grew rather than dwindled, and
with increased wealth came an increased ability to enjoy it. For
decades, therefore, the Hilby parties had been happily attended by all
those of the top ten thousand fortunate enough to be invited, and this
particular occasion proved no exception. The marble and jade ballroom
was so crowded that by eleven o'clock the ball had already been
proclaimed "a squeeze" by a smugly triumphant major domo. The musicians
strove mightily but could barely be heard above the chatter. Silken
gowns were crushed, shirt points wilted, and the plumes of turbans
became entangled. Having observed one such imbroglio with wicked
amusement, the Duke of Vaille bowed his head and murmured an enquiry
into the shell-like ear of his charming partner.

"
Doing
, your grace?" echoed Miss
Buchanan, opening her deep-blue eyes at him. "Why, we are waltzing, of
course."

"Are you perfectly sure, my dear?" the Duke asked plaintively,
his lean cheek tickled by the silk of her coppery tresses. "I'd be
willing to wager my feet have not touched the floor anytime these five
minutes. Of course, at my time of life, it is fortunate that I need
exert no effort in order to remain upright. Still…"

A silvery gurgle of laughter greeted this mournful utterance.
Vaille was a man upon whom the years rested lightly. He was as slender
and upright at six and forty as he had been when, as a boy of nineteen,
he had run off with London's leading Toast. His light brown hair might
be touched with silver, but he was judged most handsome, and not a lady
present would have been anything but proud to be selected his partner.
"You are a naughty rascal, sir," scolded Miss Buchanan, with the
familiarity of long friendship. "But since we have no need to
concentrate upon our steps, at least we may enjoy a comfortable cose.
Did I hear you say that you had visited poor Harry Redmond? How does he
go on?"

Vaille's eyes clouded. "His father and brother despair of his
recovery, I do believe, but will say only that he is doing splendidly."
His mouth tightened and, saddened by the remembrance of that fine young
man's valiant efforts to conceal his suffering, he added, "I only pray
that they may prove right. It has been a long hard pull since they
brought him home from Ciudad Rodrigo."

"Yet Harry has so much inner strength, do you not agree, sir?"
Troubled despite her optimistic words, Euphemia murmured a tentative,
"I suppose… he did not chance to mention Simon?"

The Duke said quietly, "He was able to say very little."

"And that was a very foolish question. Forgive me it, I beg
you."

Pressing her gloved hand, he teased, "Dismals? An old
campaigner like you, my dear?" Her answering smile was wan, and, having
developed a healthy respect for women's intuition, especially when tied
to so close a relationship as that enjoyed by Euphemia and her older
brother, a wary look came into his eyes. "So you are worrying, little
girl…" The immediate reawakening of her mischievous twinkle made him
chuckle. "Young lady, then," he amended, acknowledging the reminder
that she stood a willowy five feet and six inches in her stockings.
"You heard from Simon after the Grand Rhune, did you not? I understood
he came through that encounter without a scratch."

"Yes, he did. But…" Compelled to raise her voice, she
admitted, "I
do
feel uneasy, your grace. As if…
something…" And unwilling to put that chilling premonition into words,
she sighed, "Perhaps it is because the fighting seems very furious now,
and so many of our friends have fallen."

"Speaking of which," said Vaille, hoping to cheer her, "Sally
Jersey tells me she went to see young Bolster last week, and he is
much—" He checked abruptly, his narrowed gaze fixed upon the doors
leading to the side hall.

Others had also turned, and the dancing was, in fact, coming
to a complete halt. The music died away, then a stirring military march
thundered out. Shouts of excitement rose, and every head turned, necks
craning, to see the cause. Euphemia whirled around. A late-comer was
entering the room, to be at once surrounded by eager friends and
admirers. Very tall and well built, Colonel The Honourable Tristram
Leith was magnificent in his full-dress hussar uniform, silver lace
gleaming against the scarlet jacket, breeches impeccable, and a
fur-trimmed pelisse slung carelessly across one broad shoulder.

"Leith is come home!"

"Were you hit, Leith?"

"What news from Spain?"

"Oh, Lord! Have we lost then?" These shouts, mingling with
more optimistic outcries, rang in Euphemia's ears. Whitening, she
shrank against Vaille, and he slipped an arm about her waist. She
looked up at him in mute appeal. He smiled encouragement, and his rank
enabled him to make his way through the crush and guide her to the side.

Leith was quite engulfed now, and although she stood on tiptoe
peering desperately over the excited throng, she could no longer
discern him. Vaille's strong hands gripped her waist, and she was
lifted to share the pedestal occupied by a large marble statue of
Diana. At once she saw Leith's handsome head, his dark eyes full of
laughter as he strove to answer the questions fired at him from every
side. Snatches of that hectic interchange came to her, many followed by
outbursts of cheers. "Yes, indeed! Wellington is most pleased… Chased
them all up and down the hills south of the Nivelle… Grand fight! Broke
through his lines… Soult's men ran like jackrabbits… Yes, it was most
certainly a fine victory! We're across the Pyrenees, by God!"

In the ensuring pandemonium, Leith glanced up and saw her. His
expression changed subtly. Terror lanced through her as she searched
that suddenly grave face. Not Simon… ? Dear God! Not Simon! Vaille was
shouting something, but she was conscious only of the fact that Leith
was attempting to disengage himself. Such was the excitement of the
crowd surrounding him, however, that he could not at once break free,
and waiting, trembling, Euphemia began to feel sick lest her haunting
sense of something amiss had been too well justified.

Miss Charlotte Hilby, the lovely and much-admired hostess of
this elegant ball, was deeply fond of Euphemia Buchanan. She plunged
into the crowd and, struggling to reach her friend, encountered her
dashing young brother. "Galen!" she gasped, her famous green eyes
filled with anxiety. "I must get to poor Mia!"

"Did you hear? Leith says Old Hookey's done it again! By Jove!
The man's a wizard, is what!" He joined enthusiastically in a new
outbreak of cheers, then went on, "We broke through Soult's lines and—"
Following his sister's gaze, he ejaculated, "What the deuce? Euphemia
shouldn't be cavorting about up there! Ain't seemly! Victory, Pyrenees,
or no!"

This proprietary criticism was based on affection, since he
had for several months been one of the many among London's eligible
bachelors who worshipped at Miss Buchanan's shrine. His infatuation had
at first astonished his doting sister, for in the past Galen had
invariably given his susceptible heart to the more spectacular beauties
among the
ton
. No less baffled were many hopeful
parents possessing daughters whose looks were widely acknowledged to be
superior, yet whose popularity could not hold a candle to that of The
Unattainable, as Miss Buchanan had come to be known. Euphemia was not a
beauty. Her eyes admittedly were unusually fine, and of a rare
deep-blue lit by the sparkle of a resolute and somewhat mischievous
disposition. But her hair, although silky and luxuriant, was of an
unfortunate hue; a trifle more gold, and she would have numbered
another asset, but the gold was too touched with titian, and in the
sunlight her head glowed, as one matron had sniffed, "like a copper
kettle!" She was, besides being much too tall, further cursed by high
cheekbones, a firm chin, and a generous mouth that robbed her face of
the soft and helpless look so much admired in young females. As though
this were not bad enough, she had a disconcerting tendency to fix one
with a level and interested gaze, rather than employing the fluttering
lashes and shy upward glances that were The Thing. A sense of humour
she was not always able to control, coupled with her occasional
outspokenness, had oft times plunged her into disgrace. Always, she
made a recovery from such lapses and, oddly enough, emerged more
popular than ever. A great favourite with the embassy set and the
military men, she had rejected many offers for her hand. But since she
refused her suitors with unfailing charm, managing to free them from
any sense of embarrassment, they remained her staunch friends, and new
offers continued to come her way, despite the fact that she had now
reached the perilous age of two and twenty.

"For heavens sake!" cried the exasperated Miss Hilby, tugging
at her brother's sleeve. "The poor girl is beside herself with fear. Do
you not see how pale she is?"

"Does look a trifle hagged," observed Galen judiciously.
"Though why Leith's news should—" He stopped. The Colonel's dark head
was lowered to murmur something to those about him. At once many
concerned faces turned to Euphemia, and a path was opened through the
quieting crowd. "Oh… gad!" groaned Hilby. "You don't suppose poor old
Buchanan has stuck his spoon in the wall?" He locked horrified glances
with his sister, then began his own struggle to reach Miss Buchanan.

The object of his concern, reaching downward as Leith limped
towards her, was speedily restored to the floor. He took both her hands
and held them firmly, saying in his gentlest voice, "How fortunate that
I found you here, lovely one. May I steal you away somewhere, so that
we can talk for a moment?"

I must not faint, thought Euphemia numbly. I am a soldier's
daughter. If the news is very bad, I must be brave. She heard herself
asking if Leith's wound was of a serious nature, and his light response
that it was "just a shell splinter, but they want a man here to look at
it." She was deeply fond of him and knew a sense of relief for his
sake, but could say no more and seemed quite incapable of movement. A
stillness had fallen over the ballroom, and it seemed that all eyes
were upon her. Gripping his hands very tightly, she cried, "Oh,
Tristram, tell me, I beg you! Is… is my brother—"

A smile curved his mouth, and his gaze slipped past her.
Suddenly, a hand came from behind to cover her eyes. She jumped, her
heart leaping into her throat, as she removed that concealing clasp and
turned around.

A lieutenant stood there. His curling sandy hair seemed almost
dark now by reason of his pallor. His beautifully shaped lips smiled,
although the blue eyes were strained, the young face drawn and haggard.
He also wore full regimentals embellished by the buff collar and silver
lace of the fighting 52nd. But if some among the crowd thought that Sir
Simon Buchanan (despite the face that his right arm reposed
interestingly in a sling) was quite cast into the shade by the dashing
Colonel beside him, Euphemia saw only her brother's loved face, and her
heart was so full, she could not completely muffle the sob that broke
from her as her arms went out to him.  Buchanan, his own
emotions weakened by illness, turned a little to protect his wounded
shoulder, and gathered her close in his left arm, bowing his face
against her fragrant hair.

The silence deepened, and many the lady who had to press lacy
handkerchief to tearful eyes, many the gentleman who blinked and
uttered a concealing cough.

Galen Hilby, making his apologetic way through the quiet
gathering, came up beside Euphemia, shook Leith's hand briefly, and
gripping Buchanan's left shoulder said kindly, "Come, my dear fellow. I
fancy you and Mia would welcome a few moments alone."

Euphemia stepped back, dashed her tears away, sniffed audibly,
and proclaimed in a shaken voice, "I am not crying. Really, I am not.
But…" Still holding her brother's hand, she looked up into his tired
eyes and said, "Oh, my dear, how
glad
I am to see
you. And, how very, very proud." And as she spoke, her other hand went
out to be met and held by Leith's.