by Gail McEwen
“A desperate one; this library of yours is a disgrace! I cannot find a single thing I should care to spend any of my far from valuable time on, and what I do find is covered with dust and so mistreated the pages disintegrate if I so much as breathe on them.”
Darcy demonstratively wiped his hands on his handkerchief and then dropped it on a side table.
“I should have brought my own,” he muttered, not quite out of ear shot.
“Yes, well, perhaps you should have brought your own,” his friend simultaneously muttered from his chair.
“However that may be, my friend,” Darcy paused and opened one of the books he was holding. “you cannot deny that these are a disgrace. Look! The first twenty pages have been cut out.” He then opened another one and pulled a face as a few pages came loose from the binding. “This one says, ‘Happy thirteenth birthday to my dear nephew, David,’ signed by an ‘Uncle Horace’ Not a very precious gift, it seems.”
Now it was Baugham’s turn to sigh heavily, and feel uncharacteristically peevish at Darcy’s digging around through his old books. True, his library was a shameful mess, and true, the books were sitting, lying, balancing and perching perilously here and there openly on the shelf, but he had never intended this library to be anything but a private sanctuary and not a showcase for avid collectors. Why should he have to explain to Darcy that the copy of Treasure Island he regarded with such a disdainful expression was indeed an exceedingly precious gift? A book that had been read to pieces, and had been a friend and means of escape during his boyhood years. That this and many other such gifts from his uncle had been lovingly transported to the library of the one place he felt most at home? He dropped his newspaper with a snap.
“I have a perfectly fine collection in London that serves my needs most adequately. You cannot go around expecting Pemberley standards just because you are bored.”
“Surely there is something between ‘Pemberley standards’ and . . . this? Surely it would be kinder to let these . . . volumes die a dignified death on the grate rather than keep them here, abused and wretched for all to see?”
By this time the paper had gone back up and Baugham muttered behind it. “If I should ever want advice, or anything, from somebody who was never invited in the first place.”
Darcy pretended not to hear. “If this is all your father left you with, why leave it out like this for you to be reminded? Clear it out! Take up the responsibility to your name! Clean up your library!”
“If you consider what my father left me,” Baugham said, “this little bit of library is very far down on the list of family disgraces. I, however, don’t care to dwell upon the legacy of the sixth Earl while I am here at Clyne.”
“With this mess about you, it is a wonder you can avoid it. Yet what about the responsibilities of the seventh?” Darcy persisted. “Have you not taken into account the legacy you will leave for the eighth Earl of Cumbermere?” His voice was steady, but there was a sly smile on his face.
Baugham did not see the smile, nor would it have improved his mood if he had. He abandoned his paper, silently cursed slow moving clocks and long autumn evenings, and walked to the decanter to fill his glass.
“As far as ancestral obligations go,” he said in an attempt to discomfit him enough to drop the subject. “Perhaps you had better worry a little more about the continuation of the Darcy line and a little less about my own business. You are the master of forethought and scheduling — I cannot believe you have gone so long without planning for the furtherance of your own legacy.”
This time the smile on his friend’s face was unmistakeable. “Oh, I think I am beginning to form a plan. A very promising plan.”
SIR JOHN’S EXPERIMENTS IN THE kitchen were a resounding success and although explosions and vapours and changing matter elicited close interest and suitably impressed remarks, nothing was broken or burnt, nothing was spoiled and Mrs Higgins was put to shame for having no faith in science.
There was a reading of Mrs Burney’s play, which was a great success as well, for Mr Grant was cleverly persuaded by Miss Bennet that she absolutely depended on him to support her in her role as the old hypochondriac wife by playing her long-suffering, and thus heroic, husband. Holly was left to enjoy reading the spirited heroine with all the witty retorts and moral superiority against a perpetually chuckling Mr Pembroke. His fez fell off early in the first act due to this mirth and apparently he considered the reading harmless enough, for he left it off for the rest of the evening.
And there was dancing after all. Holly and Elizabeth performed a Scottish jig — with more enthusiasm than skill or concentration, it must be admitted — to the cheers and laughter of the crowd and Mrs Pembroke’s improvised accompaniment. All the guests except one seemed to enjoy this little variance to the usual curriculum heartily. Mr Grant, however, kept clutching at his heart and turning pale whenever Holly lifted her skirts ever so slightly off the floor to manage some of the more intricate steps required. In the end, he was compelled to sit down for quite a while and certainly looked more exhausted than the two dancers.
TICK.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Baugham looked up at the clock for the fourteenth time in as many minutes. He then returned to his study of the board in front of him and, once again, had to re-orient himself as to the arrangement of the pieces.
Any further attempts at reading long since abandoned, the gentlemen were attempting to pass the time until the hour became acceptable to retire with a game of chess. The minutes, the seconds, passed in excruciating slowness.
Darcy shoved a pawn recklessly in the way of Baugham’s bishop and suddenly declared, “We should have tried to acquire an invitation to that gathering! Mrs Tournier sounds like an intriguing woman, and in any event, an evening at her home could be no worse than having only each other for company.”
“Absolutely not,” Baugham muttered as his hand lingered over his bishop. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Darcy frowned at him. “Don’t hover,” he said tersely.
“I don’t hover. I am approaching.”
“Well, approach a little less slowly then. Or I’ll call it fidgeting instead.”
Baugham moved his bishop and fell back into his chair.
“What we should do is stop pretending we have any social obligations towards each other and retire so we can get an early start for the trout tomorrow. This is simply mind-numbing.”
“I am certain,” Darcy retorted, “that the happenings at Rosefarm Cottage are anything but mind-numbing. How could they be otherwise with Sir John Ledwich as one of the guests?”
“Sir John Ledwich? Sir John is there?”
Baugham’s attention was suddenly caught and his hand stopped right over his queen.
“You’re hovering again,” Darcy said calmly.
“Never mind that. What on earth can he be doing there?”
“Mm.” Darcy carefully positioned his queen. “Check. ‘Explotions in the kitchie’, if your housekeeper is to be believed. Worth finding out at any rate, wouldn’t you say?”
Baugham hastily moved his king out of the way and into safety.
“I cannot believe you would want me to suffer the agonies of polite chit-chat with old hags and their spinster daughters and other dull females just to talk to Sir John. I had much rather commandeer his carriage back to Edinburgh and have my conversation there.”
Baugham swung his rook so that one of Darcy’s pawns fell off the board.
“Darcy, I neither know those people, nor do I wish to. That is the whole point of my stay here.”
“And I cannot believe that you take your pretensions of a hermitic existence to such extremes,” Darcy said as he calmly surveyed the board. “What can be the harm in making yourself agreeable to the locals here? It is, in actuality, a form of duty and a form of showing respect to them. An occasional appearance here and there is all that is needed. You do at least plan to attend church services while
you are here, do you not?”
Baugham sat back, still waiting for Darcy to make his move.
“Do not think that it is necessary to continually preach duty to me, Darcy. Do not forget that I have my own seat in Cheshire, where I make all the proper appearances when I am there. But Clyne is not Cheshire, and here I do not jump through hoops for the entertainment of the locals.”
“They are not ‘hoops’,” Darcy said darkly. “It is respect and due expectation. You are a landowner. How many of the people rely on you for their livelihood? And not just their livelihood but their future? You are an unknown greatness in such a small place as this and you owe it to the people who rely on you in various ways, to declare yourself and instil a sense of security for them. “
“Check!” Baugham said and slammed down his knight. “What is it that you want?”
“What gives you the impression that I want anything?”
Counting on his fingers, Baugham proceeded to explain.
“One: Instead of your habitual discouragement of my preference for coming here rather than joining in more exalted pursuits, you encouraged me quite ruthlessly that I should not only leave London immediately, but that I should specifically remove to Clyne. Two: You are here as well, in Scotland, of your own accord. Three: You are not only here, you are anxious to socialise with the local populace — in Scotland. That, my dear friend, is suspicious enough! And four: I know you and I think you are up to something.”
“What you think I might be up to, so far away from civilised society, I cannot guess.”
“I cannot guess either,” said Baugham, “but I will wager that it is some way connected to the events at Rosefarm Cottage this evening, or to the family you find so fascinating residing within.”
For a brief moment, Darcy’s guard was down and Baugham saw something flit across his face, something akin to irritation. “I would simply like to meet them. That is the extent of it,” he answered weakly.
“Well, if you let me checkmate you right now — in less than three moves — we’ll be sitting in the parlour of Rosefarm Cottage, having tea, within three days. I’ll contrive a meeting somehow. No questions asked.”
There was a silent moment as Darcy met his lordship’s eyes. Baugham smiled. He knew it! Darcy was hesitating. This was something he wanted, but still he hesitated and would not yield. It was harder for him — damn his pride and sense of honour! — to lose a game of chess on purpose than to have what he so desperately wanted and plotted for to be served on a silver platter no questions asked.
After a long time, with only the ticking of the clock making any sound in the room, Darcy reached out and wordlessly made his move. Baugham could not suppress a smile when he saw that with that one move his friend had not only spared his last remaining knight, but he had put his own queen in danger as well. It would be less than three then. This turn of events would almost certainly prove to be very interesting.
“WHAT A WONDERFUL PARTY!” HOLLY kicked off her slippers and massaged her ankles and toes.
“You didn’t sprain your ankle from the jig, did you?” her cousin smiled and tugged at her bodice while she fanned herself with a piece of paper.
Holly laughed. “Oh no! Split seams more like it, but I loved every second of it!”
Their eyes met and both burst out laughing.
“Mr Grant!” Elizabeth said and hid her face in her hands. Holly shook her head, but could not stop laughing.
“Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move, Silently, invisibly,” Elizabeth declared with her hand resting on her brow and head leaned back in a dramatic pose.
This launched another fit of laughter from the girls.
“Oh you are infinitely to be preferred, Eliza!” Holly said and wriggled her stockinged toes. “The way you do it, it is very enjoyable.”
Elizabeth caught her aunt’s stern eyes upon her. “Well, perhaps I do him wrong. The way we have been abusing young men among us lately I suppose I should show mercy and call him ‘very agreeable.’ After all, if you decide to accept him one day I shall have to endure that and more, and might even come to treasure him as someone who at least openly appreciates your virtues and good character as he should.”
“Oh, he is not so bad, I suppose,” Holly sighed. “I might have been a little hasty in portraying him to you in such a ridiculous light. Although you must admit it would be hard to be happy with a man who possesses such an extensive knowledge of the poetry of Blake.”
“And who is so eager to let Mr Blake or Lord Byron speak for him on every occasion!” Elizabeth laughed. “She walks in beauty like the night . . . ”
But she got no further before Holly held up her slipper in a threatening manner and Mrs Tournier sat down on the sofa beside her with a thump.
“Girls, the hour is late! Spare me, simply show me mercy and spare me. I want no more of this speculation on Mr Grant’s hidden virtues. And you, Elizabeth, must stop encouraging him in living out his ridiculousness.”
“That is what you must expect, Aunt, if your guest list includes so few attractive young men. Aside from Mr Grant and Sir John’s handsome doctor friend, why, one would think you mean to encourage Holly in her quest to avoid men. It’s a pity you could not invite Mr Jon — ” She was stopped mid-utterance by the strong grip of Holly’s hand on her arm.
Mrs Tournier stood up and straightened her back. “I am exhausted,” she said, tight-lipped and looking far from tired. “Goodnight.”
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said as soon as the door closed behind her. “I hope I did not say something amiss.”
“Maman does not care for Mr Jonathan Pembroke,” Holly said quietly. “That is all.” She stood up then and began gathering the leftover food from the scattered trays around the room. Elizabeth moved to help her despite Holly’s protests.
“I am not a guest, dear Holly, I am family and I must earn my keep,” she teased. “I would not have my visit send you to the poorhouse.”
“It will do no such thing, Eliza!” Holly said, cheering up immediately. She dropped the platter she carried onto the sofa before dancing over to the fireplace to stoke the last of the dying embers. “I have a commission to make colour plates for Sir John Ledwich’s latest treatise! And the distant promise of another. The handsome Dr McKenna is bringing round the manuscript and sketches Monday morning. I can start straight away!”
She twirled around a few times more, to her cousin’s delight.
Elizabeth stopped as well, picking up the piece of paper she had been using as a fan.
“Well, I shall freely admit I understand nothing of what he proposes for you to do. ‘Connected valves in triangular positions . . . ’ It is very impressive, though. How shall you find the time with your obligations at Hockdown?”
Holly stopped abruptly. “I’m not going back to Hockdown,” she said calmly.
Elizabeth looked stunned. “You are not? But . . . why?”
Elizabeth pulled Holly down to sit beside her on the sofa and searched her face with a worried frown.
“Holly,” she said. “What happened?”
Holly smiled a little wistfully and regretted the wonderful evening would have to include revisiting the events before she left Edinburgh, but at the same time she was glad Elizabeth had asked. She needed to tell her.
When she was finished, Elizabeth looked pale. “That is not possible,” she finally said. “That is appalling. I . . . oh, I wish I had a horse that could take me there right now and I would tell them a thing or two about your character!”
“You don’t ride, Elizabeth,” Holly said dryly, “especially all those miles on a dark and wet night.”
“If ever I could, I would this instant! I am so sorry, so very, very sorry.”
Holly smiled a little sadly and stroked her cousin’s hand that held on to hers very tightly.
“I must apologise to you, Holly,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I have yet again been too lost in my own selfish concerns
to even notice there was something wrong or to ask you how you are. And you have listened so patiently and faithfully to my stupidities and self-indulgencies.”
“No, Elizabeth,” Holly said steadfastly and fastened her own grip on her cousin’s hands. “Don’t say that. Can’t you see how happy I am right now? I am! I am happy because I am home, I have that commission, I have the party and most of all I have you here with me. Can’t you see? And I am happy because for once I do not have to wallow in my own self-pity and miseries, but I can share yours.” She smiled. “We always do that, you know: we are honest and we tell each other what we want the other to know. I would have told you in time, I swear I would have. But right now I just want to revel in my good fortune and the fact that you are here.”
“I am here,” Elizabeth said. “And I am so very happy to be so.”
MR DARCY GLANCED AT HIS watch once again. He was sitting in a chair in his friend’s room watching him try on yet another coat.
“Perhaps we should have gone fishing after all,” he muttered. “Assuming trout don’t merit the same esthetical consideration as your fellow human beings.”
“They are Presbyterians, Darcy,” Baugham answered as he straightened his sleeves. “Not the fish,” he hastened to clarify, “the human beings. They believe in predestination. And I am predestined to be late — there is nothing I care to do about that — so I might as well look my best. Everyone’s going to stare, you know.”
“How much more ‘your best’ can you possibly look after trying on four different coats?”
“The devil is in the details. So are you still bent on going? Or shall it be the trout after all?”
“I always attend when I am in the country. It is a moral duty.”
“From what I hear, you always attend more to comparing the tenant roll to the congregation at Pemberley and then pester your sister to remember everyone’s name rather than the sermon.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your sister; she claims you make her visit the absentees under the guise of charity.”
“It is charity. No one owes me any explanation. She could have told you that, too.”
