by Gail McEwen
The most welcome letters from Hertfordshire were, of course, those from her niece, Elizabeth. Mrs Tournier gratefully acknowledged that her sister-in-law’s candidness and her brother’s wit were perfectly married in Elizabeth’s letters and she took great joy in keeping up a regular correspondence with her. As few others of her family would, Elizabeth Bennet confessed to great curiosity about her aunt’s life and exploits, but even more readily she confessed to being very fond of her. Whereas Mrs Tournier’s previous life as the wife of a French Revolutionary, exiled when the movement turned violent and bloody, and now a purveyor and collaborator with various periodicals and publications of the intellectual circles in Edinburgh, was not generally talked about within the Bennet family, Elizabeth almost defiantly kept up a warm and close relationship with her aunt. And, perhaps even more importantly, with her cousin Holly.
When Mrs Tournier was widowed eight years previously, she had chosen to stay on at the small cottage called Rosefarm where the family had made their home after their flight from Paris at the Jacobins’ rise to power. First it had been insisted upon by the Pembrokes, who originally provided the little family with a refuge from a rootless existence in exile. The terms and rent were very generous, and if at first grief held Mrs Tournier and Holly close to where Jean-Baptiste Tournier had lived and worked, it soon became apparent that economy would continue to do so. Additionally, she was obliged to work for an income, and as much as she hated the necessity, it was evident that her daughter must contribute as well. This her daughter did through teaching at a respected seminary for young girls in Edinburgh. Hockdown School was respected but uninspiring. Elizabeth’s visit would be a treat Holly well deserved, and probably desperately needed.
Mrs Tournier let her hands smooth the sheet of paper in front of her while looking out at the darkening October evening. Soon it would be dark enough to require another candle and that she could ill afford, especially for familial correspondence. She shifted her eyes to the empty paper and the quills that lay untouched in their etui. She could write her brother — she should write her brother — and offer her congratulations and thanks for allowing Elizabeth’s visit. She knew it was a sacrifice for him to let her go and she felt she ought to acknowledge as much directly to him.
Her good intentions were forestalled by the sound of a closing door on the other side of the house, and the muffled squeals of Mrs Higgins in the kitchen. A smile spread across her face as she dropped her letter on the desk. Brisk steps, one hallway, a few doors, and she was there. Her daughter had just pulled her bonnet off and was working on her gloves when she spotted her.
“Well this is a surprise, Lie-lie — ” was all she was able to get out before she was smothered in hugs, kisses and tears.
AS HE SET OUT FROM the inn, Lord Baugham reflected that although four days and three nights in fairly adequate lodgings on the way was extremely tiresome to a man of such an impatient disposition as himself, it was worth it once he could finally look upon the sweeping hills, the luscious green glens and big skies. He felt his heart swell and his mind clear of all the clutter in anticipation of finally reaching the place he loved best in the world — Clyne Cottage.
His ancestral home in Cheshire, Cumbermere Castle, had never held his affection. Both an unfortunate relationship with his father and his dislike for the ostentatious trappings of the estate and its obligations contributed to his spending only the absolute minimum amount of time required to attend to unavoidable business affairs. He had been left very little else by way of fortune from his late father; just that mismanaged estate and a glorious, yet chequered, past. The Castle was completely without modern improvements, decayed, in decline and uncared for. His lordship viewed his prime obligation, owed not to his squandering father, but more to the generations of honourable Cumbermeres before him, to save what he could of the seat and estate and restore some of its importance for the local tenants and other dependants.
This goal did not entail the frequent presence of his own person at the estate, as his friend Mr Darcy advised, but rather the discovery and employment of industrious and reliable persons to perform those obligations for him. “I will not rest until I have at least attempted to do my duty,” he had informed his friend, “but my talent does not lie in managing, you must see that. My talent surely lies in harnessing the abilities of others, allowing them to work without interference, and securing what profit I can from it.”
Any affection for land and property he reserved for Clyne Cottage, and when finally the carriage drew up in front of the view he had waited so long to behold, he felt something indescribable swell in his chest — a poet might have called it love. The day was rapidly waning, but the whiskey-coloured sandstone building, nestling against the rolling hills and faintly reflecting the scant sunshine, was clearly visible to him through the shielding monkey-puzzle trees and Scots pine. Behind it, he knew, the river languidly meandered, only to struggle through rough and rocky passages just half a mile further down. As visible as the cottage was to him, was his carriage to its caretakers, so when he stepped out and stretched his long limbs, his smiling face met those of Mr and Mrs McLaughlin, both happy to see him and eager to wish him welcome once again.
After a warm exchange of greetings, they informed him that Riemann had arrived only a few hours before and was busy arranging his quarters to his satisfaction. Mrs McLaughlin soon extracted a promise to be allowed to send into town for meat to sustain them for the coming few days before his lordship would be able bag some game for his own table, and Mr McLaughlin was granted an audience to address the situation of the wine cellar.
As was his habit, his lordship immediately bullied his man into interrupting his arrangements to help him change out of his travelling clothes and into his country clothes, and then dismissed him from interfering with his dress for the rest of their stay. Childishly happy and humming tunes with distinct romantic notions of nature, Lord Baugham retired to his library with a book and a drink to wait for dinner. But before that, he availed himself of the last remaining light of the day to compose a letter:
Clyne Cottage
Tuesday
Dear Darcy,
Just a short note to tell you I have indeed arrived and am comfortably sitting at my writing desk with the Kye River flowing smoothly beyond my window in front of my eyes as always. You may be amazed at the condition of our roads, for I have never known a journey to be so smooth and swift. Alas, I will never be completely satisfied with the Almighty’s plan of putting the place I love best so far away from the places I am bound to inhabit, but I suppose that is all in his great plan of teaching me humility and patience. So far his success has been nominal — as our last conversation no doubt has convinced you. Nevertheless, you are not to worry. I have put all troubles and regrets behind me and I find I have not the least bit of concern for what is now being said or done in my absence. I daresay by Christmas all will be forgotten. I am now at home and at peace and take this opportunity to wish you all the best.
Your friend,
Baugham
Chapter 2
Pasts are left behind and Hearts and Minds find Rest in and around the Village of Clanough
As always with her homecomings, Holly felt emotionally drained just reaching that small parlour and being in her mother’s presence. Consequently, there was little talk and much touching of stray hairs and smudges of ink or mud on faces and hands as they loosened their initial embrace. For anyone familiar with the habitual expressions and faces of the two women, it would have been remarkable how tenderly Mrs Tournier’s eyes rested on her daughter, and how shiny and soft Holly’s expression turned when her mother touched her face and took her hands once more.
They sat down, wordlessly, on the sofa and, with sighs of relief and happiness, settled down to a few moments of silence when all in the world seemed right and well and just as it should be.
“You know, my dear,” Mrs Tournier finally broke the silence, “as much as I am enjoying your unexpected e
arly arrival, your stomach will soon have its revenge by interrupting our perfect harmony and happiness with vulgar sounds if I do not soon offer you tea.”
Holly sat up with a smile and could not hide her delight.
“And,” her mother said with a smile of her own, “to celebrate and to restore, we will both have sugar with it. I haven’t had any for a week and I have been very hard at work with Mr Harrowdash’s latest thoughts on the ballast of France’s republican past in its new imperial age, so I definitely deserve some tonight.”
Holly froze. Her mother had used a light tone, but she knew her fondness for richly sugared tea when she was working, and if she confessed to having had none this past week, that meant that she was economising. Tears welled up in her eyes as she realised she must divulge her predicament as soon as possible and perhaps spoil this perfect moment. She grabbed hold of her hand, preventing her from moving away to call Mrs Higgins.
“Maman . . . ” she said in a desperate tone.
Her mother frowned at her as she looked down.
“What is with all this emotion, daughter? I know you are always happy to be home, but it has not been that long since you last were here.”
“Oh Maman,” Holly choked out between sobs that were full of bitterness as well as relief and worry. “I haven’t just come home for a visit this time . . . I have been sent home. For good.”
Not waiting for her mother’s bewilderment to express itself in words, she plunged on.
“But I have been thinking on the way and the first thing tomorrow I plan to send out letters in search of another position. But . . . I also thought that maybe I might try find something closer to home, instead. I mean . . . I’m a miserable seamstress, but I can cook — or serve. Do you think maybe Mr Robertson at the inn might have a place . . . ?”
She stopped when she met her mother’s eyes watching her. Slowly Mrs Tournier sat down again and folded her hands in her lap.
“What happened?” she said.
Pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling, Holly looked down at her own hands.
“You were right in everything you tried to warn me about, that’s what happened. I should have kept to lessons in music and French and not attempted anything more. The headmaster called me into his office and . . . it was just as you said, no one was interested in having the girls learn anything of educational value — he said I was wasting my time, and theirs. And, Maman, they learned about my going into the city and the boys’ lessons and that’s . . . ”
She looked up and attempted a smile, even as the tears fell freely. “It appears that I am a subversive influence and a poor example of virtuous womanhood. After five years of service, I am no longer acceptable.”
Mrs Tournier stroked her daughter’s cheek and for a few minutes she listened to her tearful exclamations. When she finished, she addressed her calmly and softly, but not without some sternness.
“Oh my dear child, all these tears! Now Lie-lie, you must stop this nonsense straight away! As far as I can see, you have nothing to reproach yourself or your conduct with, other than idealism that I suppose you cannot help. Therefore, there will be no tears spilled on account of Mr Hockdown and his establishment. Why should you see this as such a great calamity when you were uneasy and unhappy at that place, your conscience is clean and you are loved and appreciated right here? It makes no sense.”
Mrs Tournier could see the protests springing to her daughter’s lips, but she headed them off with a look.
“Truly, I can see no other reasonable source for your tears other than exhaustion and relief. We will manage; we always do. Something will come up. And since you have no reason to lament, there is no reason why your homecoming should not be a source of great joy and celebration instead. If your stay should be of some longer duration than originally planned, all the better!”
“But Maman — ”
“Lie-lie,” the mother continued sternly, “I will allow you to cry and mope all you wish tonight, but your cousin is coming soon and I plan to enjoy her visit, as should you.
“Sit with me a while. We do not have to say a word. Indeed, I hope we do not since once your eyes grow used to these familiar surroundings you will find that your life is not so hopeless after all, and there is no reason for such desperate tears. Rather the opposite, since I will now try once again to ring for tea.”
Holly felt herself relaxing — it felt good to be home and in her mother’s care, just like when she was a child — but when the tea arrived she was not quite ready to tend to it.
“It is not the fact of my leaving that has upset me, but that I was sent off in disgrace and shame like a common . . . ” here she broke off, not trusting herself to continue without more tears. After a moment she looked up at her mother with an odd smile. “Maman, tell me — how did you know I was uneasy and unhappy at Mr Hockdown’s school? I tried so hard to hide it from you in my letters.”
Mrs Tournier gave a most undignified snort for a lady with pretensions of sense and wit. “Tried, being the operative word, my dear. There is no such thing as successful concealment of your feelings from your mother, although I have tried very hard not to put you at a disadvantage because of it. And if your desperate attempts at inducing sense and compassion into your charges, or those after hours forays into the city for charitable education were not telling enough, I know your disposition well. Remember, I have known you all your life! You have never made any secrets of your likes and dislikes. Even if you very rarely express them out loud, they are written on your face plainly for anyone to see who takes the trouble. And you never did take to letter writing as an art. Your own sweet self shines through in every line.”
The slight smile on her daughter’s face induced Mrs Tournier to take her hand and clutch it.
“So then, what is this shame and disgrace you talk of? You are by no means the first capable and intelligent young woman to be dismissed for unfathomable reasons. Surely no one who knows you can doubt your character and your diligence?”
“I had thought not, Maman, but it seems that old prejudices are more highly regarded, and less easily replaced, than poor young teachers. Maman, Mr Hockdown implied that my dealings in town involved . . . less than respectable actions as well. I don’t know how he could say such things; how could anyone say such things about me?”
Mrs Tournier was not a timid woman by any measure. She had also seen enough of the world and man’s folly, greed and cruelty not to be easily impressed by renewed evidence of it. Furthermore, having been quite a beauty in her day and blessed with a sweet countenance, she did not portray dismay or rage very convincingly — which perhaps had always been the saviour of her sometimes more than trying manners and bluntness. Now, however, she definitely could have inspired the most sanguine of her fellow men to recoil. She looked at her daughter, her calm vanished, eyes flashing and her brows laid in deep wrinkles.
“Infamous! So that is how the land is laid, is it? That horrid man! That sad, desperate excuse for a human being!”
She clasped the locket around her neck with her late husband’s portrait as she always did when agitated and, rubbing it for a few seconds, managed to compose herself.
“Nothing surprising, nothing extraordinary, but I am incensed all the same. ‘Less than respectable’, indeed! Oh, I do believe I am too put out to make any sense! But rest assured, I shall spend a sleepless night articulating my chagrin and tomorrow after breakfast I shall be glad to spell out my injured sense of justice and propriety in carefully worded phrases to Mr Hockdown! We may be without recourse, but we are most certainly not without voice! You may be certain of that.”
Strangely enough, this show of agitation had a calming effect upon Holly. This was what she was accustomed to; her mother had always been her most vocal champion, and now that she had shared her burden she was sure that somehow, between the two of them, things would be put right.
She pulled her mother to sit down beside her, laid her head upon her shoulder and res
ted a moment in the comfort she found there. Then after pouring two cups of tea and mixing them properly, she handed one of them over.
“When does Elizabeth arrive?”
Mrs Tournier pursed her lips and patted her daughter’s hand.
“As if you have not been counting the days for the past month. But I will allow your unnecessary question as a very welcome change of subject. Elizabeth will be here in two days’ time, and, as I have been able to procure a copy of Mrs Burney’s latest play, you and she must fight over the part of the romantic heroine I think. I’m convinced that it will rally your spirits. I think we must arrange a little soirée around it, don’t you? I know Elizabeth with be highly disappointed if we do not and will insist on reading it out loud herself and commenting on the wit of it all, whether we have an audience or not. If only we can contrive some way of keeping any undeserving young men we find ourselves obliged to invite from insisting on the part of the hero, we shall be well entertained.”
Holly smiled and concentrated on her tea. She watched her mother unload three lumps of sugar into her cup, stir it reverently in silence and sip it with her eyes closed. As she opened them again, she looked at her daughter.
“And Lie-lie my dear,” she said firmly, “Mr Robertson will not have a place for you at his inn. Ever.”
