Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  “Maman, this is no time to be proud. I will do what is needed.”

  “Of course you will,” her mother said and leaned back with a blissful look on her face. “You just will not work for Mr Robertson that is all.”

  “Maman? What is going on?” Holly asked beneath lowered eyebrows. “Why do you have that smug expression on your face?”

  Mrs Tournier opened her eyes and they sparkled. “It’s the sugar,” she said and laughed. “Oh how I do like my sugar!” She patted her daughter’s hand and put away her tea cup. “And tomorrow my dear, we will pray for a fine day so that you can potter about in your garden and I can sit at my desk watching you as I write my letters. I have quite a few I must attend to.”

  Seeing that further questioning would be futile, Holly put her cup away as well and simply sat quietly next to her mother. She was home, Maman was not worried, and even if they must live without sugar, somehow all would be well.

  LORD BAUGHAM COULD NEVER ABIDE being anything but happy at Clyne. His plans, therefore, simply consisted of staying there for as long as he remained so, and leaving just as soon as it was no longer the case. The very first morning of his stay, he made plans to venture out with poles and tackle and the avowed intention of catching his own dinner, to Mrs McLaughlin’s surprise, but was interrupted in his mission by a majestically proportioned thunderstorm. Needless to say, that most gothic of weathers frightened away the fish more effectively than his oaths or the wet spectacle of himself did, though he did manage to bring down two unsuspecting birds on his way back. His man, Riemann’s, fussing and Mrs McLaughlin’s potions failed to bring him any benefits or enjoyment, but when he was comfortably tucked in front of a warm fire, reflections upon man’s insignificance against natural forces and his folly at thinking himself able to disregard the signs sent to warn him, led him to poetry.

  The storm without might rair and rustle,

  Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

  The lines from his favourite poem made him smile. But circumstances were not favourable to philosophical thought and poetic ramblings. Instead, he found himself planning the small excursion northwards Mr McLaughlin had seen fit to recommend for tomorrow, probably covering a few days, to inspect the salmon passages before winter set in. This was all he needed and he sank further into his chair. Weeks of the same activities, the same landscape, the same pursuits stretched before him and he smiled. He was home.

  HOLLY HAD GONE TO BED with a vague sense of guilt for the relief she felt when contemplating that she really, truly would never have to return to Hockdown School ever again. It was true that she also possessed a fully developed sense of outrage at the injustice of her dismissal, but she could not look around her small, comfortable, room, warmed and illuminated solely by the frugal fire, without a smile.

  In the morning, she sat up with a start upon first seeing the sun streaming through the window, fearing she had overslept, but it only took remembering where she was, and why, to decide to snuggle back down under the warm blankets and let herself slide back into a decadent, second slumber. By the time she woke again, the sun was much higher and her stomach was grumbling about a missed breakfast.

  A doting Mrs Higgins had saved a plate for her and, while she ate, Mrs Tournier kept her company with a cup of coffee. Afterwards her mother, with that same smug expression she had sported the night before, pleaded letter writing duties and excused herself, leaving Holly to choose how she would spend her first morning home. It was no surprise to any of them that she went directly to her garden.

  She had meant to simply walk around and check out the state of things, pulling off the odd dead blossom or dried leaf as she noticed them, but once alone in the chill October air, she could not stop the train of thought and worry. As she played the humiliating inquisition in front of the Directors over in her mind, as she recalled the vile insinuations, as she worried about how they would manage to make ends meet now that she was no longer earning a wage, she found that she was growing more and more agitated.

  She had not cried. Throughout all the humiliating ordeal of being summoned from her classroom in the middle of the day, being subjected to impertinent questioning, being accused of “masculine” behaviours simply because she believed the girls had intellects that ought to be nurtured, she had not cried. Worse was the lecturing; each pompous gentleman on the Board of Directors in turn, chastising her at length for trying to expand her pupils minds and give them something to think on besides fashions, dances and men. Worst of all was Mr Hockdown, the Chairman, who came last.

  “Miss Tournier,” his stentorian voice rang out, “is it true that you have been stealing out to the sordid quarters of the city in the night, alone, in a seditious attempt to educate the filthy rabble, to stir them up to pretensions of equality and worth?”

  Lifting her chin defiantly, she had answered grimly, her mouth tight and her eyes flashing, “They are not filthy rabble, sir . . . ”

  In need of activity, Holly took a knife and snips from the greenhouse and what started out as a tour of inspection soon turned into a full blown cleansing ritual. Anything brown or overgrown, in need of trimming or cutting back before the frost, received her attention. She cut, pruned, trimmed, raked and piled as she thought about what had been, what was, and what might come. The physical labour provided an outlet for the restless wanderings of her mind. Yes, she was prepared to do anything that might be necessary in order to assure their continued support — but at the same time, the thought of becoming a cook or a serving girl depressed her spirits. She had always dreamed of being so much more. The legacy of her parents, and her idealisation of their struggles and sorrows, was a very powerful influence on her aspirations. She wanted to do something, to be someone — to make a difference.

  “And more seriously,” Mr Hockdown had continued, “I cannot but question your assertions that charitable motivations and misguided views on education are your sole incentive for these secret forays into the city to meet with men clandestinely. Miss Tournier, these activities cast a shadow over your moral character and respectability . . . ”

  Holly had thought she had found a way to make her situation bearable and to live up to her parent’s republican ideals, but it had been taken from her and turned into something ugly and sordid. While she had detested being a teacher of deportment, drawing, music and French, at least it was a respectable profession and could be seen as having some sort of impact on the lives around her, but to think she might be reduced to wiping tables and filling mugs simply to put food on the table . . . As much as she hated to admit it, her pride rebelled at the thought of facing Elizabeth and telling her she was to become a serving maid at the local public house.

  Holly then grew disgusted with herself for succumbing to such snobbery, pulling a few innocent plants out by the roots in the process. Since she was old enough to obtain a position she had always worked, her mother worked, and she had been raised to believe that the labourer possessed as much, nay, more, nobility than the so-called upper crust of society — she would not be ashamed!

  By this time her thoughts had grown as dark and ominous as the storm clouds gathering overhead, her pile of refuse in the corner had grown almost as tall as she was. She put a flame to it, watching as all the dross and litter caught fire, sending shimmering waves of heat and feathery bits of floating ash up to the skies. She listened to the crackling of the flames and wondered if there was any symbolism to this act of hers. Would she be a phoenix rising from the ashes? Or was she merely watching her hopes and dreams go up in smoke?

  MRS TOURNIER WAS PREOCCUPIED WITH her letters, but she suddenly smelled something burning. Looking up, she saw smoke oozing from a pile of leaves and garden debris and her daughter standing with her arms crossed beside it watching intently. The rain was beginning to fall, extinguishing the flames, but Holly was still focusing on it as if expecting something to happen.

  “A bonfire, eh?” Mrs Tournier thought ruefully and put down her quill for a moment. “All
that smoke can surely not be welcome to someone bent on symbolic significance.”

  Suddenly, however, a gust of wind shook the hedges and a swirl of a dozen or so yellow and withered leaves rushed past the bonfire, got caught in the warm air rising with the smoke and lifted the round, golden leaves first high up and then scattered them like gold coins over the nearest patch of earth.

  Mrs Tournier smiled. “Making money,” she thought. “Well, let us see, Lie-lie, if my method isn’t more reliable after all.”

  She carefully put a few more finishing phrases to her letter and in a strong, sure hand signed it, sprinkled blotting sand all over her spindly writing, folded it up and addressed it to the Board of Directors at Hockdown School for Fine Young Ladies, Edinburgh. She had deliberately striven for brevity at the expense of a full articulation of her sentiments to restrict herself to one, uncrossed and plain sheet of paper and, even if she had muttered additional comments to herself vigorously during the process, she was pleased with her effort.

  Putting it aside, she drew out a new page, hastily ran over what she intended to write in her mind and set to work.

  Rosefarm Cottage

  Clanough

  Selkirk

  My Dear Sir John Ledwich,

  As always at this time of year, I am once again asking for your congratulations on the return of my prodigal daughter. This time, however, you may even be so bold as to envy me since it has transpired she will be home for a longer duration than originally planned. Nevertheless, not to abandon our old customs altogether, this letter is that traditional invitation for you to come and see us at your convenience to take pleasure in the fact that I have my Holly home with me. As usual you can expect Mr Jones from the Chronicle and Mr Kershaw, too, since Parliament is adjourned. Do not be surprised if Mr Grant sees fit to join us, too. I can hardly refuse him since his Aunt Grace is coming and she is bringing the Pembrokes and you know I could not refuse them even if I should want to.

  This time if you should take a fancy to conducting some of your more picturesque thermological experiments in the kitchen, I am afraid we shall have to dismiss Mrs Higgins beforehand, since she cannot abide any pyrotechnics or explosions causing havoc on the hearth. She has no natural curiosity about the world around her, poor thing.

  So now that you have a fixed engagement and a promise of lively, but civil, conversation, mandatory intelligent discourse, a few pretty girls and stimulating company to brighten up your rainy Edinburgh academic toil, I shall put another matter of great importance to you quite bluntly.

  I know you are hard at work on your newest treatise on Heat and Voluminous Expansion and although I am rather inclined to think illustrating test tubes and pipettes must be the height of tedium, I am certain Holly would find both pleasure and challenge in perfecting your visions and conclusions. As you are already fully aware of her artistic talents, I have no qualms over pressing her services upon you and I will not do it cheaply, so there is your means of excuse, if you will have one, for not considering her. You are, after all, an important man these days and can afford to pay her handsomely. She, on the other hand, can aspire to the title of an established artist, so I will not sell her short.

  Please let me know post haste of your decision and then we can spend several agreeable hours haggling over fees when I welcome you here in our modest home on the 20th.

  Yours cordially.

  Mrs Arabella Tournier

  HOLLY POKED HER HEAD IN the door once more to check the time. That the post chaise was running late was not unusual, but that she was so anxious for it to arrive made the minutes drag by intolerably slowly. Mr Robertson gave her a smile and a wave and told her not to fret, the coach might be delayed, but it would arrive sometime this day. Didn’t she know the punctuality and reliability of the English post was the envy of the civilised world?

  She returned his smile and resumed her pacing on the lawn in front of the Caledonian Thistle. So many times, a wait on this lawn had only meant that she was leaving home again on the Edinburgh stage, but this time her spirits were high. Elizabeth was coming and she could hardly wait. Elizabeth’s visits were always a special time, set aside for laughter and enjoyment, for deep talks and confessions, and for freedom, at least for a short time, to be her long forgotten, girlish self. She was determined that no worries about past or present would mar the visit — there would be time enough for that later.

  At the sound of the carriage wheels, she shouted for Tommy and ran up the road to meet it. Of course, it did not stop until it came to the inn yard, so Holly had to turn and run back down the road again alongside it. All the while she smiled and waved into the window, hoping that the shadowy figure waving back was her cousin.

  Finally a head popped into view, a frantic unclasping of the window ensued and all the while Holly could hear her cousin’s muffled laughter behind the glass.

  “Oh Holly! What are you doing? You dear silly girl!” were Elizabeth’s first words as she finally was able to open the window. She leaned out, laughing happily the rest of the way until the carriage came to a stop, jerking her back into her seat and momentarily hiding her from view again.

  Holly, breathless and grinning from ear to ear herself, stopped and composed herself while Tommy unlocked the door and unfolded the steps. The first one to emerge was her cousin Elizabeth with her bonnet strings untied and her arms stretched out to be caught.

  “Oh, Holly!” she said. “What a welcome!”

  Through happy tears and laughter Holly cried, “Oh, you are welcome. So very welcome! I am so happy to see you.”

  She did not even wait for the luggage to be unloaded before she was tugging her cousin down the road toward Rosefarm Cottage.

  “I have arranged it all with Mr Robertson already. They will bring your trunk down directly, but I am in no humour to wait for it. You must come and say hello to Maman. Then we can have something to eat and you can rest in your room if you need to.” She tugged again. “Come, Elizabeth. Hurry.”

  “Hurry? I have been hurrying the whole day! The horses were lazy, indolent creatures only interested in vying for opportunities to cast off their shackles and admire the scenery, and if I weren’t so mortally afraid of getting a good scolding from all those slovenly inn keepers and coachmen, I should have refused to pay them anything for their slothful services! How can Clanough be so far away?”

  She held her cousin at arms length and took her in. “No, Holly, I just want to look at you.” She winked her eye at her and pinched her cheek playfully. “I do believe you’ve grown.”

  “Grown?” Holly laughed. “I do believe the rough coach ride has addled your brain. I have grown . . . Elizabeth, I am grown and have been grown for several years at least! Now you on the other hand . . . are exactly the same size as the last time I saw you — and I will say that you look very well. But aren’t you the least bit hungry? I have been waiting here all afternoon; shan’t we have some tea at home?”

  Elizabeth looked at her cousin. Holly’s eyes sparkled and there was an energy about her she had missed. An energy that matched her own restless mind as well as her elation perfectly. Carefully she linked her arm through her cousin’s and kissed her cheek.

  “Of course we shall. I will want for nothing once I have tea with you and Aunt Arabella. But,” she turned them around and slowly guided Holly down into the road, “I insist on a majestic approach to our final destination. I shall hurry no more. I shall heed the words of the philosopher who claims the journey is more important than the destination. You shall lead me down the road to the very place I’ve thought of and missed and longed for so desperately, but I insist on dignity. Even if I burst first!”

  Elizabeth smiled at her cousin, who smiled back and for a moment they were silent as they began to walk back towards Rosefarm Cottage in almost exaggerated poise and composure.

  “There!” she then said conspiratorially. “Now your neighbours know we are capable. Shall we run the rest of the way?”

  And run the
rest of the way they did. Laughing, shrieking, nearly losing their balance a time or two, bumping into each other and finally, bursting through the gate at full speed and hitting the kitchen door with a thud. Once inside, they skipped past a stunned Mrs Higgins and charged arm in arm into the parlour to find Mrs Arabella Tournier at her desk.

  Gasping for breath and stifling their giggles, they watched Mrs Tournier turn around and remove her spectacles.

  “So the whole neighbourhood now knows what I see. I must tell you, I could hear you coming all the way from the tinker’s yard. So, welcome Elizabeth!”

  Elizabeth dropped a curtsey and her aunt gave her a little crooked smile.

  “Very nice, niece,” she said, “but not quite how we do it around here.” She rose and embraced her niece warmly and received many equally affectionate kisses on both of her cheeks amidst laughter and smiling.

  “I’m sure you had a perfectly beastly journey,” Mrs Tournier said when Elizabeth finally let go of her, “and knowing you, you think the only way to remedy that is to take a long walk this instant. However, since you are now in my care I will insist on tea first.”

  “To which I could have no objection, my dear aunt! I would sincerely love a walk to admire Scotland’s beauty as soon as possible, but since I know very well you don’t share my fancy and would not accompany me, I will gladly have tea instead.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” Mrs Tournier smiled. “Besides, there are a great many happenings at Longbourn that I must hear about instantly, so the walking will have to wait.”

  Elizabeth flushed a little, but quickly found her seat and thus hoped her aunt had not paid too much notice to her hesitation. Let Lydia take the blame for my wavering, she thought. That certainly is a subject I do not care to have a frank discussion about so soon after my arrival.

  “Of course!” she said aloud. “I should tell you first of all that Jane sends her love and fondest regards; that which she can spare from Mr Bingley, naturally. She is very happy.”