by Gail McEwen
“Perhaps the delectable fumes of Monsieur Chrétin simply drift across to Berkeley Square and I pick them up. Or perhaps the downstairs maid’s sister’s son apprentices with the butcher and his cousin runs as a link boy for me occasionally.”
Mr Darcy gave him a lopsided smile and reached for the claret.
IN THE TYPICAL MANNER OF men, Lord Baugham and Mr Darcy would have described themselves as “the best of friends.” Had they not gone through university together, studying the same subjects, defending the reputation of the same College, competing for the same prizes and earning honours enough between them both on and off the sporting field to cause considerable notice among the tutors and masters?
Now, as adults, they attended many the same social gatherings, held many acquaintances in common, shared interest in the same pursuits and voluntarily spent a respectable amount of time in each other’s company. They were both tall and good-looking, both were men of status and fortune, and both commanded attention when entering a room. On the surface they were very much alike — how could they not be the best of friends?
Such an easy relationship between two such different tempers, however, might still be an enigma to those not privy to their history. Certainly there had been a fair amount of jostling and vying between them, but for two competitive minds the rivalry had so far been confined purely to sports and academia and never tried in other, more immeasurable areas of life, and so far both had felt the friendship of the other to be a great privilege, adding understanding and equality in the society between them. Not an easy thing to achieve considering the requirements of both.
Darcy now studied his friend in his post-dinner repose. They both sat comfortably in front of a generous fire with generous drinks beside them. Baugham relaxed with his long legs stretched out before him and his normally so brilliant blue eyes half-hidden behind lazy eyelids. He wore a contented smile, however, which was no more than right for dinner had been excellent. It always was, of course, but this time Darcy felt the groundwork had been laid well enough; it was time to set to work.
“I’ve had an offer from a canal building company in Stockport. They want to build a canal through the northern part of my Glossop land.”
There was a nod from his friend. “Makes sense. How much are they offering?”
“5000 pounds.”
His guest gave a low whistle. “A pretty sum of money.”
“Mm. It’ll cut the land in half. It’s grazing land, too.”
“Well, if they offered me 5000, I wouldn’t care if it cut Cumbermere right in half and buried the main drawing room under water!”
Darcy looked down into his glass. “Perhaps. But what if it were Clyne?”
Lord Baugham’s lazy eyes opened and a hint of mischief washed over them. “I’d tell them to take their offer to the devil!”
“And you’d be right, too. Not that I don’t think we will be forced to share the burden for what the industrialists are doing to the country in the name of progress and prosperity soon enough somehow.”
“Well, they’ve already made farmhands and maids a scarce enough natural resource up north. All gone to Chester to work at the mills. Not to mention all this talk about ending the Corn Laws . . . Damn it, Darcy, I thought you promised me a nice quiet evening without vexations and politics! You know how I hate being reminded of the fact that I am an indebted landowner after a good dinner. It really ruins a fine meal like nothing else.”
“I promised you no such thing,” Darcy noted dryly. “You should just be glad I restrict myself to agricultural politics, since you’ve had plenty of other sources of vexation lately — of a considerably more personal nature.”
Lord Baugham waved his hand dismissively.
“In fact,” Darcy went on, “you’ve really outdone yourself in blatant disregard of the facts and circumstances in search of some silly way to relieve boredom this time.”
“Nonsense!”
“Wellstone did not look like nonsense to me. Sisters, Baugham? What in the world can you have been thinking? No, never mind — I don’t want to know. But, may I remind you; you deemed the situation serious enough to warrant an early leave-taking and that not without some embarrassment to your hosts as well as yourself.”
Baugham’s eyes were now directed at his host and had lost all of their peace. “Are you preparing one of your lectures? If so, spare me!”
“No. You’re beyond lecturing in this, my friend.”
There was a deep grunt from his lordship.
“I think you know it, too.”
There was no protest, so Darcy bided his time, finished his drink and refilled both of their glasses before he continued.
“And I suspect you would not be sorry to come across a good way to extract yourself and end the whole fiasco sooner rather than later.”
“Nonsense!” was the answer again, but Darcy knew his friend was speaking more of his own performance in the society drama he was embroiled in, than his friend’s suggestion.
“Weren’t you going to Clyne anyway?” he said smoothly. “Couldn’t you just leave a little earlier than originally planned?”
As always, the mere mention of his lordship’s Scotland estate made Baugham smile. “Not that much to shoot yet.”
“Well, with the sorry skills of marksmanship you’ve displayed here in Town lately, I think that might just be as well.”
He received a sharp look and acknowledged his misplaced quip. “But you cannot deny it would solve a thing or two.”
“Two things, certainly,” Baugham said with a raised eyebrow.
Darcy shook his head. “I think you should go,” he said quietly. His friend gave him a long look and then sighingly sunk down even deeper into his chair.
“Perhaps I should,” he said and closed his eyes.
THE JOURNEY PROVED TO BE one of the more comfortable ones Lord Baugham had experienced on these roads. It was true he had the hospitality of his old friend, Lord Grifford, and his most comfortable arrangements at Millby Hall to thank for one night, and although the beautiful lady of the house begged him to stay a few days more, he was eager enough to be on his way to spend the next night on the road, much less comfortable but much closer to his final destination.
Yes, he had left Town early, but upon reflection he had no regrets about that. If he had been a more self-searching individual, he might perhaps have regretted more the circumstances which necessitated the decision to leave sooner than planned, instead he felt only relief and anticipation — and boredom. Lord Baugham sighed as he stared out at the landscape that was so numbingly dull and unchangeable. Mile after mile of the same muddy road, batches of trees and sleepy hamlets. He could not even make out any landmarks to tell him how far he had come; he only knew there were at least two more nights on the road before he arrived.
On the other hand, as the distance from London grew, any possible lingering thoughts or regrets on the two lovely sisters, Mrs Ashton and Lady Merriwether grew more distant as well. Yes, two sisters, equally lovely and spirited and safely married to older doting husbands and both equally as interested in the young Lord Baugham, who seemed unhindered, willing, and able to brighten up a dull season with some flirtation, fun and, well . . . more. How could he have been expected to choose between them? And who would have supposed that sisters talked of such things amongst themselves? Surely it would have been more dangerous for him to profess a preference for one over the other? As it was, neither of them had been happy with sharing his attentions, once discovered, and it had very nearly come to a scene at Wellstone Manor, where the delightful clandestine flirtations and relationships risked exposure in a most embarrassing manner. The whole business had suddenly and definitely lost its charm for him and the truth was Darcy’s urgings that perhaps it was high time for him to follow through on his frequent threats to leave the whole business behind him and run up to Scotland were received with a willing ear. Since his friend usually took great pains to distance himself from his affairs, Baugham had
been surprised at his friend’s sudden interest in saving him from scandal, but he had to admit that Darcy was right; the situation was close to spiralling out of control and the advice was not unwelcome.
He sighed. Trust Darcy to keep on the sidelines and just enjoy the spectacle with a mix of incredulity and amusement only to suddenly take matters into his hands with a definite opinion and a well-thought out solution. Of course he was right, there had been nothing else to do but go, and having taken definite steps to do so, Baugham was not especially surprised at the relief and happiness he felt by quitting Town and leaving society behind.
CHEERED IMMENSELY BY THE SIGHT of a few fine and massive specimens of the otherwise long-gone Ettrick Forest oaks and sunny weather after two days of incessant rain, Lord Baugham strode into the Caledonian Thistle post house in the village of Clanough on an early October afternoon and cheerfully greeted Mr Robertson, the proprietor. He was splattered with mud from head to toe, his coat was filthy and his manservant would most probably experience palpitations upon observing the state of his boots and breeches, but he was in a splendid mood. He had escaped the confines of his carriage and ridden the last stretch of his journey, he was home, or would be within the hour, ahead of schedule and just picking up his mail before disappearing from the surrounding world into the haven of peace and anonymity called Clyne Cottage.
As the small stout figure of Mr Robertson disappeared to fetch possible missives for his lordship, Baugham leaned leisurely at the bar and sipped at the tankard that had been drawn and placed before him without question. He wiped the sweat off his brow, sighed deeply and listened absentmindedly to the busy noises of a coaching inn preparing for the departing Edinburgh stage. There was some sort of commotion at the door and suddenly it was flung wide open and a cloaked, stooping figure pushed a large bandbox through the door. He watched as this figure, a young lady as it happened, placed the bandbox to the side and began dragging in a trunk. Absently, he wondered where the boy was that should be helping her with such heavy work.
The young lady, Miss Holly Tournier, was wondering the same thing when the strap she had been tugging on suddenly snapped and nearly sent her onto the floor on her backside. Holly looked around in embarrassment, but thankfully saw that the room was nearly empty, except for Mr Robertson, who had his back to her at the moment and apparently did not notice her distress, and one other gentleman leaning against the bar — watching her with a smirk on his face.
“Quite heavy those things, aren’t they?” he said in a refined drawl, partly in her direction, partly at Mr Robertson who had returned with his mail. He slipped the proprietor a third coin in addition to the ones for the ale and the service and, nodding towards the lady, gave him an encouraging look. Consequently, Mr Robertson disappeared again in search for Tommy.
Holly stared in disbelief, not only at his smile and callous remark, but at the fact that he could simply stand there and watch her struggling and not even think to offer any kind of assistance. Of course, at the sound of his voice she thought she knew exactly who the gentleman was; he was that lord who had bought the Clyne lands up by Nethery Farm a few years earlier. On further reflection it did not surprise her that he should be so ill-mannered. What else was to be expected from a rich member of the peerage, brought up to a life of idleness and privilege hiding away at his little plaything of a cottage and probably engaged in unspeakable sloth and indulgence? She rolled her eyes at his comment and gave him her best smirk in return.
“Please, do not trouble yourself, sir,” she replied in a voice that she hoped reflected the full level of sarcasm she intended. “I am sure I can manage it quite well on my own.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that!” The reply came in the same cheerfully lazy drawl. “I’m always amazed at the amount of stubbornly capable women in this part of the world. Can’t make it easy for aspiring chivalrous men.”
“Well, it is certainly obvious you have learnt that lesson to heart, sir,” Holly muttered, shuffling her luggage out of the way across the floor.
Her comment was lost in the sound of the bandbox scraping the floor and Lord Baugham threw a glimpse over his shoulder towards where Mr Robertson had disappeared.
Holly stood up and tried to straighten her clothes. She was tired, her limbs ached, her nose was full of the dust of the road and the odours of her fellow passengers and on top of everything she now had to stay dignified in the face of a rude and boorish man who had left all his gentlemanly habits south of the border, thinking people up here were not entitled to his good manners. It was almost too much. She just wanted to be home already.
She felt her throat constrict and concentrated on looking haughty and fixing Lord Baugham with her best dark look, perfected over all her years as a schoolteacher.
“They’re in such a hurry these days,” the man she was busy disliking suddenly said. “The stage I mean. You know, I was told once by this fellow I met out with a shooting party that the passengers on the stage he came on were given three minutes over a hundred miles to get something to eat over two stops! Reading and Millsby, I think. Or Millston. In Linconshire at any rate. Can you imagine, he came to join us for shooting by taking the stage!”
“Really? How shocking.” Holly did her best to ignore him but found great relief in answering him in her iciest tone. However, Lord Baugham did not seem to notice her frosty reply but carried on.
“Well, of course, he never heard the end of it! Imagine! Guns and such on the stage! I’m amazed the stage master didn’t throw him off. Although, perhaps he had no time to do so since, as I said, there was very little time to stop anywhere. But it just goes to show you.”
Holly briefly closed her eyes and then gave him a disgusted look.
“That the stage is really rather impossible. I suppose they just threw down your luggage outside and left you to fend for yourself, didn’t they?”
Somehow it galled Holly to no end that he was absolutely right. She had barely climbed out of her cramped seat on the coach before it set off again and she found the luggage unceremoniously left in the middle of the courtyard with no ostlers or post boys or anyone in sight to help her. It seemed so humiliating to her that he should have guessed at her humiliation, too. It must be written on my face, she thought.
She swallowed. “Some people,” she said sharply, “have no choice whether to take the stage or no. Some people are happy not to have to sit on the roof or walk. And some people don’t mind very few and short stops because they could not afford any fare or drink at the exorbitant prices avaricious landlords charge at their postal inns anyway.”
It was an outburst she had not planned and she had to admit she felt rather better for having succumbed to it, but the way the man opposite her hitched up his eyebrow and gave her a long look with what she noticed were exceptionally bright blue eyes in such a dimly lit quarter as this, was slightly uncomfortable.
“Well,” Lord Baugham said slowly, “I suppose you have a point.”
“I know I do,” Holly answered, not quite prepared to admit that she was done with him. “And that is perhaps one additional reason for this imposed self-sufficiency to which you seem to take such offence, my lord.”
Baugham tried to give her a friendly smile, but she merely narrowed her eyes and turned away. Just then Tommy breezed in, stammering apologies and taking charge of her belongings, looking confused as the lady slipped him a coin for his services. Baugham just cleared his throat and shook his head, smiling. There was a moment where the young lady glared at Tommy for what she must have considered extremely peculiar behaviour and inattention and then caught his lordship whistling a little tune to himself. She gave him a stare, but as he seemed oblivious to her displeasure she silently articulated a few more very uncharitable thoughts about “gentlemen” and “nobility” and turned on her heel.
Baugham stole an amused glance at her while he watched her walk out the door, then flipped through the mail, discovered nothing but business from his steward and secretary
and, giving a small sigh of satisfaction, pulled on his gloves to leave again.
JUST DOWN THE WAY, IN a snug little parlour crowded with newspapers and unfinished books piling up on the empty chairs and tables, Mrs Arabella Tournier sat upright, reading, her handsome face set in its habitual frown. She was by no means an unpleasant or disagreeable woman, but there was little enough cause for smiles and happiness in her life and so they were seldom seen unless she was in the presence of her daughter. Suddenly, however, a small chuckle escaped her, because the only other thing guaranteed to relieve the perpetually down-turned mouth and knitted brows was her correspondence with her family in the south. She was contemplating a missive just arrived from her sister-in-law all the way from Hertfordshire. The correspondent’s polite amazement at the speed of His Majesty’s Mail Services and, in the next line, her sincere assurances that Elizabeth was very welcome to stay up north as long as possible and even a bit longer than that, if you please, were met with a wry smile and distinct amusement in her lively and intelligent eyes. Mr Bennet’s protests, she was very candidly told, were not to be heeded. Elizabeth was much better off with her aunt where she would be far less trouble and might possibly come to realise and regret her shameful treatment of her mother in the midst of the harsh and grim weather they must surely be suffering from at this time of the year. Life in Hertfordshire at the moment was perfect, and Mrs Bennet intended to enjoy it as a just reward for all her struggles. Mrs Tournier had no qualms in allowing her the right to do so. Especially since it meant Elizabeth’s removal to their home was one part of it. It could be said a letter had seldom been sent and received with equal, yet quite opposite pleasure in both sender and recipient. The receiving of Mrs Bennet’s letters was an expense Mrs Tournier would be loath to forego but perhaps not entirely for the reasons her sister-in-law imagined.
Notwithstanding the excellent news contained in this particular letter, what Mrs Tournier was so fond of in her sister’s infrequent letters was that there was no art about them. They perfectly mirrored their authoress’ tone and personality, not to mention were most informative about the wealth and prospects of her future son-in-law and his impressive connections and Mrs Tournier, however much she was glad the writer was not there in person to deliver her news and opinions, appreciated that. They were so very different from her brother’s letters. Mr Bennet was a most unreliable and frequently exasperating correspondent, because though Mrs Tournier felt no regrets in leaving the place of her birth and girlhood, she did retain an affection for it and, more importantly, for her nieces. Her brother could never be relied upon to be as candid about the goings on in Meryton and at Longbourn as his wife was certain to be.
