by Gail McEwen
Chapter 4
In which Company is Enjoyed, Endured, Sought and Found
So will there really be no young men inclined to dance and no music at all?”
Elizabeth took a few elaborate dance steps together with her rake. Holly stopped in the middle of cleaning the steps and stone slabs in front of the cottage and leaned on her broom.
“We-ell . . . ” she said slowly, “usually it is useless to even try, for no one can really hear any music over all the chatter and talk and, I believe, given the wretched condition of our old spinnet, most of our guests would agree that it is a blessing.”
“That old thing truly is a disgrace,” Elizabeth laughed. “I cannot understand why you keep it still.”
“Well, first of all it doesn’t take much room. Second, it was left for us by the Pembrokes — so we are not really at liberty to dispose of it — and lastly and most importantly, it serves as a convenient piling station for books and papers and when closed it is just the right size to hold the tea tray.”
“The Pembrokes sound like very kind friends. They have a son, do they not? Is he handsome? Does he dance? Oh, tell me he does not quote poetry!”
“Yes they have a son and yes, he is handsome.” Holly said in a level voice and, not looking up, attacked the same spot she had just finished sweeping. “No . . . no poetry — he fancies himself a scholar. But he will not be coming. I expect he is busy.”
Elizabeth skipped around the growing heap of leaves she had gathered and then gave a formal curtsey to her tall and thin dancing partner.
“A pity. Oh well,” she said generously. “I am looking forward to the party all the same, even if I am to be deprived of the pleasure of a quadrille partnered with a handsome young man.”
“Are you forgetting our vow so soon, Elizabeth?” Holly smiled shakily, “Our pleasures will come from stimulating conversation and Sir John’s spectacular displays. No men, remember?”
THE ONLY THING THAT PREVENTED Darcy from requesting that his friend tie his hands to the armrests of his chair was the fact that he was still depending on Baugham to somehow bring him closer to Rosefarm Cottage and its inhabitants. The rain had kept them inside for most of the afternoon and that definitely had a depressing effect on his lordship’s mood. Darcy could not deny he felt the same. In his case, however, his nerves were further tried by what a day cooped up with only his friend for company did to his plans to find Miss Bennet.
He had just formed a firm resolution to start taking his daily exercise by riding up and down the Clanough village lanes, when a commotion and the sound of female shrieks were heard out in the hall. Lord Baugham’s nervous finger tapping stopped and Darcy immediately found himself eternally grateful to whoever was responsible for the interruption.
A minute later, Mrs McLaughlin walked through the door with a tea tray and what looked like a wet rag stuffed in her apron pocket. Darcy frowned slightly at this singular sloppiness but Baugham did not seem to notice.
“What was all the hubbub, Mrs McLaughlin?” he asked. “Not another guest, I hope.”
He gave Darcy an impish grin which was returned by his friend’s pursed lips and derisive look.
“Noo, it was Mrs Higgins dropping the hot kettle. Ye must excuse her, m’laird, she’s fair nervish tonight.”
Baugham nodded and transferred his attention to the tray’s cold cuts and preserved plums, but Darcy’s attention was firmly caught.
“Nervous? Why?”
“Because she’s been driven out of her kitchie while the women have their party.”
Now Baugham looked up too, but it was more due to the housekeeper’s scornful tone of voice than pity or concern for the fate of Mrs Higgins.
“Really? How odd.”
“The Tourniers?” Darcy interjected, ignoring the abundant display of food and beverage in front of him which seemed to have broken Baugham’s concentration on the issue at hand once again. “A party?” Immediately his mind turned to the probability of the guest list including young female relatives from Hertfordshire.
“Aye,” was Mrs McLaughlin’s short reply since Lord Baugham was by this time perched behind her, anxious to get his hands on the cheese.
“And do these parties take place at Rosefarm Cottage often? You must have an intimate knowledge of the family and their guests, Mrs McLaughlin.”
Baugham stopped the shovelling of meat onto his plate and stared at his friend in stunned silence. Mrs McLaughlin gave a snorting throaty sound as she finished pouring the tea.
“What else goes on besides explotions in the kitchie? I don’t know that I want to know ought else.”
“I take it they are an eccentric bunch then,” Darcy went on calmly.
Mrs McLaughlin shrugged and surveyed her finished work.
“Aye, well. They have that niece from the Sooth staying with them. She’s respectable enough, it seems.”
Baugham was still staring at Darcy when Mrs McLaughlin decided question time was past and sailed out again. Darcy shrugged, but felt a growing sense of triumph moving about in his chest even as he tried to return to his book in a detached manner.
“Just curious,” he muttered when he felt his friend still watching him.
“So I see,” Baugham said and resumed his finger-tapping.
Darcy sighed.
HOLLY HEARD VOICES IN THE hall downstairs and she rushed to stick the last pin into her hair, threw one more look at herself in the small looking-glass on the wall and pinched her cheeks. Not too bad, she reflected. She would never be a great beauty, but her time at home had eased the worried frown on her forehead and her eyes were not the hard ones that usually looked back at her. She’d do. After all, no one would be in attendance this night that she needed to impress with her looks; if she could get through the evening with some attempt at spirited conversation and well-argued opinions, she could count it a success.
As she flew down the stairs she heard Elizabeth’s voice and she could tell it was choked by barely contained mirth.
“You must be Mr Grant,” she was saying.
Holly rolled her eyes and bit her lip, but then remembered Elizabeth would be by her side and her frown turned into a smile.
A young man was bowed over her cousin’s hand as she entered the parlour. Instantly he looked up at her and Holly recognised Mr Grant’s usual stunned expression.
“Mr Grant,” she said. “I see you have met my cousin, Miss Bennet. How do you do?”
“Miss Tournier,” the young man said and flushed wildly. “I . . . I am charmed. By you both, naturally.” He swallowed hard, giving Holly a moment to exchange a look with her cousin. “She walks in beauty like the night,” Mr Grant said in a constrained voice. “You . . . you look lovely, Miss Tournier. As always. As always . . . ” he muttered and kissed her hand again.
“Is that poetry, Mr Grant?” Elizabeth asked in a cheerful voice. “Or is the lighting too dim for your tastes?”
Mr Grant looked bewildered. Holly, not meeting Elizabeth’s eyes lest they both burst into laughter, smiled politely then turned to welcome the other guests in an attempt to extricate herself from his attentions. It was not an easy task; Mr Grant was nothing if not persistent and he followed her possessively as she made her rounds.
BAUGHAM TWIRLED THE EMPTY WINE glass in his hand. He eyed the decanter that stood on the table, but could not quite decide whether he wanted any more. He sighed.
What now then? They had discussed plans for roe buck hunting, whether the trout might be worth the small trek up stream, the upcoming social calendar of the locals including the traditional Martinmas fair, church attendance and the quality of the preaching, as well as if Clanough had anything to offer in the form of attractions. Historical attractions, Darcy had felt it necessary to add.
Baugham told him about the effigy in the local Presbyterian chapel. “Sir Robert Ramsey. I haven’t seen it myself, but Mrs McLaughlin tells me it is a fine piece, bronze I believe, and quite the destination for sight-seers from Edin
burgh in the summertime. She does not approve of their audacity in picnicking on the church lawn.”
After that, more silence. The evening passed with nothing specific decided upon, but Darcy nevertheless expressed — several times — that he had not travelled so far simply to stare at dusty stag heads above fireplaces or sit in cramped quarters unless the weather absolutely made it necessary.
“And I cannot believe you find any enjoyment in staying cooped up here either,” he said sternly. “Just because your boredom enticed you into playing inappropriate parlour games in London, there will be no cure for that in sitting inside all day.”
Baugham protested he certainly did not sit inside all day — quite the opposite as his very absence when his friend had seen fit to arrive had proven.
“But neither can I see how mingling with tiresome provincials at every opportunity can afford me any more enjoyment than I already find very well on my own. I did not acquire this place to enjoy effigies in local churches or admire fat cows at country fairs!”
OLD MR PEMBROKE WAS WEARING a Turkish fez perched on his head. His bushy hair spilled out on all sides and he proudly displayed, to a very entertained Elizabeth, his wife’s ingenious use of hatpins to keep it safe from falling off.
“This is my party hat,” he cheerfully explained, “and it is reserved for occasions when familiarity and ease mingle with excruciating intellectual sharpness, conspiring together against my poor fuzzled head.”
“Or when there is real danger Sir John will singe your eyebrows off,” his wife interjected. “As you may gather, the fez is an essential accessory when we travel to Rosefarm.”
After Elizabeth enthusiastically agreed, Mr Pembroke smiled at her paternally. “It is too bad, my dear Miss Bennet, that you could not have timed your visit to Rosefarm for earlier this summer. My son, Mr Jonathan Pembroke, always comes to spend part of the summer season here with our good friends, and I am sure he would have been delighted to make your acquaintance. Although,” he conceded as he looked around, “I doubt poor Rosefarm Cottage could accommodate two extended visits at once. Mrs Pembroke and I have always regretted that we could not offer the Tourniers a more spacious residence, but it seems to have served them well through the years and they have made it a very comfortable home.”
“And hospitable too,” chimed in Mrs Pembroke. Then she turned to her husband, “But you forget, my dear, that Jonathan has plans to break his journey here in a few weeks’ time.
“He always enjoys his stays here, whether they are brief or long,” she added to Elizabeth. “So you will have the chance to meet him after all. I declare, I am sure he won’t know which way to turn, with two such pretty young ladies in the parlour to attend to.”
Elizabeth smiled. “He needn’t be uneasy on that account; neither my cousin nor myself require much attending.”
Across the room, Holly picked up an empty platter that had been full of food just a few minutes before, sighing over the appetite of her mother’s friends. She had thought they could get by very well on some of the leftovers until Sunday, but apparently wit and conversation did not prosper on an empty stomach. Now it seemed highly unlikely there would be any leftovers at all except for the stewed cabbage. Well, maybe one could make soup of it. Or hide it in some form of pie crust . . .
The sight of Sir John beside her cheered her, and he smiled as she caught his eye. “So my dear, has Mrs Higgins been sent away?”
“Well, you had better come and help me set things up in the kitchen then,” Sir John continued when she nodded and gently took her arm to steer her away from her chores. “Ah,” he smiled as he spotted a young man in the crowded parlour. “Here is a colleague of mine I would like you to meet as well. Dr McKenna!” he called across the room. “This is the young lady I have been telling you about.”
Dr McKenna was a large, well-built man with broad shoulders, a long frame and an open, friendly countenance, a physician by profession and an aspiring geologist by choice. Holly gave him a smile and greeting when he came over and they all three went into the empty kitchen together. When they returned a few moments later, Holly’s cheeks were a bright red and her eyes sparkled with excitement. She shot out of the door with Sir John and the doctor following slowly and likewise smiling behind her, and almost ran up to her mother.
“Oh Maman!” she said and clutched her mother’s hand, quite interrupting her argument with Mr Kershaw. “Sir John has made me such a wonderful offer!”
“Really?” her mother asked. “And does his wife know about this?”
Holly blushed, but Sir John came to her rescue.
“Of course she does,” he said cheerfully. “I would never make such an offer without consulting her first.”
“Well, I am glad to hear it,” Mrs Tournier said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “One can look forward to a perfect marriage of words and image then?”
Holly met her mother’s eye and they both smiled.
“Well, I shall certainly do my utmost to fulfil my obligations,” Holly said and felt as if she was floating slightly above the ground with happiness. A commission! Colour plates to Sir John’s Treatise on Heat! And compensation equalling her entire income for one term at Hockdown School! “Thank you so much, Sir John, you will never regret giving me this opportunity, I promise you.”
Both Sir John and Dr McKenna laughed, and the doctor piped up. “And I can promise you, Miss Tournier, that once I am fortunate enough to obtain funding for my own treatise, you will be the only artist I consider to illustrate it.” Holly looked at him in surprise. “Well, if Sir John trusts you with his work, I can only conclude that your abilities are excellent,” he explained. “And . . . if it allows me to make you as happy as you appear to be tonight, it must be worth any compensation.”
She thanked him kindly and even sent a friendly smile to Mr Grant, who was perched behind the sofa regarding Dr McKenna with slight suspicion and her with a possessive eye.
Elizabeth stood at the other side of the room and the cousins’ eyes met. Her cousin gave her a proud and happy look and Holly answered her with a contented smile. Then they laughed a little before returning to their own circles of conversation.
Mr Grant, who had been suffering cruelly while Holly had been privately sequestered with the gentlemen in the kitchen and conversing so happily afterwards, came up and, taking advantage of the next lull in conversation, positioned himself in between her and her friends.
“Is this true what I have overheard,” Mr Grant heedlessly blurted out. “You are home for an extended stay?” At her hesitant nod, he plunged on. “Why, that is very good news indeed! And may I hope that, perhaps, this circumstance is in some way a favourable reflection on my offer — ”
“Mr Grant,” Holly interrupted hastily. “Please. Such personal matters should not be . . . this is not really the time or the place to discuss . . . I fear I have been neglecting our other guests for too long already and Sir John’s proposition is really all I can contemplate right now.” She knew with all her stammering she was not making herself clear and that her excuses were not helping her cause at all, but all she could do was continue. “I have only just arrived home, you understand, and I am sure that Maman will not wish me . . . nor am I in any rush to . . . please, it must wait. Surely you are in no particular hurry?”
“Hurry,” muttered Mr Grant, “oh, no! No, I am, of course, fully content with — well, it is a very nice evening. And you are right. Of course.”
Holly watched as Mr Grant took a step back. The look on his face told her that her attempt at forestalling his questions had somehow given him the wrong impression and now he was proceeding on a false hope she would hear yet another proposal from him at a more convenient time. She despaired that she would ever learn to handle a difficult situation without somehow turning it into an even bigger problem.
“ . . . which, you must agree, is exactly why Lord Sidmouth’s position defies all common sense,” Mrs Tournier, having turned back to her discussion,
said in an uncharacteristically patient voice to her companion. Undoubtedly he would have answered her in the same vein, because even though the tone was light, there was passion in their eyes and heightened colour to their cheeks that betrayed an earnest debate. That was not to be, however, for Mr Grant sat down beside her with a heavy sigh and dramatically put one hand up to his brow.
“In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?” he declared to Mrs Tournier with another sigh.
His hostess regarded him in silence.
“I trust, Mr Grant,” she finally said with pursed lips, “you do not mean to imply that my dinner has given you indigestion.”
Mr Grant gave a start and apologised for his ill-timed use of Mr Blake’s sentiments.
“I was merely . . . Mrs Tournier . . . it is that your daughter, she is exceptionally lovely tonight and she did favour me . . . but perhaps I am too hasty in my hopes . . . Mrs Tournier . . . ”
Mrs Tournier could bear it no longer. She stood up and addressed her daughter in a strong voice that carried over the room and left no room for interpretation.
“Holly! Mr Grant suffers from indigestion; time to set up Sir John’s tubes and valves and what not!”
THE EVENING DRAGGED ON INTERMINABLY, and the competition between the days-old newspaper and the increasing drowsiness that threatened to overcome Lord Baugham was interrupted by an explosive sigh from across the room and the sound of books sliding and hitting the floor.
He dropped his newspaper slowly and fixed a narrow gaze upon his friend. “Having troubles, Darcy?”
By that time Darcy had gathered the books again and drained the last drops from his glass of port. He shot an irritable look at his lordship and asked, seemingly out of nowhere. “How can you live like this?”
Baugham knit his brows together, “Now what sort of a damn-fool question is that, Darcy?”
