Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  “Oh, Elizabeth, don’t be too severe with yourself! Don’t make the same mistakes in the opposite direction. You do not know why he has come; you could still be right.”

  Elizabeth sighed, but she was smiling now. “You are right, I could. I am certainly selfish enough to hope I am, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. I suppose that is a peculiar brand of optimism, but I find it has served me both well and ill in the past so I am loath to relinquish it.”

  Holly looked at her pleadingly. “Elizabeth, don’t let your guilty conscience over hasty words and uncharitable thoughts make you blind to the fact that this man has yet to do anything other than prove his power to you. Not respect or esteem or even love. And until he does convince your heart as well as your mind . . . ”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. That is what I think as well. And, more importantly perhaps, feel. Mr Darcy probably has as many regrets about this affair as I do. I have yet to see anything that proves the opposite.”

  She could have added “unfortunately” and the word hung in the air between the two girls, both equally aware of it. But still, Holly thought, even if interpreting Mr Darcy’s actions in the best possible light and knowing her cousin’s honest feelings on the subject, there was still a long way to what she knew Elizabeth wanted and deserved in a man.

  She kept hold of her cousin’s hand, feeling the need to break away from this subject, this feeling of upheaval that was in the air. It was stupid, she knew, this wish that they could always go on as they had before. Of course Elizabeth would marry someday, hopefully to a man who deserved her, and changes were coming to her own life as well — whether for good or ill she could not see. But for this little span of time, Holly only wanted to enjoy her cousin’s company, and remember what they had always been to each other; she wanted to be a carefree girl again. She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand tightly and began their old game.

  “Here I bake . . . ”

  Elizabeth glanced at her for a moment, then smiled and continued the childish rhyme.

  “Here I brew . . . ”

  Holly’s grin widened.

  “Here I make my wedding-cake . . . ”

  “And here I mean to break through!” Both girls then, hands clasped, began to run down the path, remembering the days when their dream wedding cakes had been carefully crafted out of mud and sticks, breaking through the recriminations, regrets and worries that surrounded them and determined, for the time being at least, that nothing and no one would break them apart.

  THE SURPRISE ENCOUNTER AT THE church that morning seemed to have turned the tables regarding the tempers of the gentlemen. Lord Baugham was in a splendid mood and Mr Darcy hardly said a word as they walked home again. Baugham had exchanged a few words — all condescension and ease — with the reverend, complementing him on the service and confessing that if all Presbyterian sermons were as enjoyable as this morning’s, all they had to do was to change the pews into slightly larger and more comfortable ones and he would convert on the spot. Darcy, frowning at this frivolity, suddenly objected to his attempts at fulfilling a landowner’s social responsibilities and merely wanted to be on his way again.

  This, however, could not be accomplished before the local representative of the landed gentry, a Sir Torquil Tristam complete with wife and three daughters in tow, made himself and his family known to his lordship in a long and detailed speech. Once they extricated themselves from his exuberant conversation, Lord Baugham stopped to wave cheerfully at Mr and Mrs Robertson, of the Caledonian Thistle Inn, and their brood of children making their way down the slope. Only then was Darcy successful in dragging him away.

  “And now you suddenly don’t approve of my landlordly duties?” Baugham quipped. “Just when they may come in handy to you too.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Darcy asked sourly, his only wish being that he could find peace and quiet enough to contemplate that morning’s results. He still could not quite decide whether it had been a success or a failure.

  “You still want to break down the door to Rosefarm Cottage, don’t you? Or have you established an abduction scheme now that you know the lady ventures outside.”

  “Well, it is quite obvious my company is not enough for you for tea anymore,” Darcy answered coldly.

  Baugham gave him a long sideways look. “Darcy. Who is Miss Bennet?”

  “She is an acquaintance of mine. And of my sister. Mr Bingley is betrothed to her sister.”

  “And you have come to see her. Or has she come to see you?”

  Darcy looked straight ahead, controlled his features and, with an air of calm, answered his friend’s questions.

  “I came to see you. I told you as much.”

  “Why? Is that your only purpose in coming here, Darcy?”

  Darcy looked up at the sky. “It looks like rain,” he said. “We had better hurry home.”

  “HOLLY,” ELIZABETH GASPED. “STOP. PLEASE. I can’t run any further.”

  “No, not until you have chased all your vexation and doubt away!” Holly cried, tugging at Elizabeth’s arm.

  “I have! I swear I have,” her cousin panted and laughed, planting her feet and refusing to run another step. “Tea . . . I need tea.”

  “Very well, I relent! But only because tea sounds like an excellent idea right now; I am starved!”

  This time the walk to Rosefarm was accomplished in better spirits, though with no less confusion for both girls. Once there, Elizabeth was able to speak calmly of Mr Darcy’s surprise appearance to her aunt, and to temper somewhat Holly’s less than flattering description of Lord Baugham.

  “Lord Baugham, eh?” Mrs Tournier said and looked thoughtfully at her daughter. “I know that name from somewhere — ”

  “Of course you do!” her daughter scoffed. “He is ‘practically our neighbour’.” She looked down her nose and drawled. “And I say practically because I would never condescend to consider someone little better than a crofter a true neighbour, however close we live to the same fields and woodlands.”

  Holly pulled a face, but her mother was unimpressed.

  “I wonder . . . ” she said and tapped her foot. “What is it I almost remember about that name? He must have had the place for nigh to three years already . . . ”

  Holly ignored her mother just as she had been ignored and lifted her eyebrows to Elizabeth. Elizabeth shook her head and remarked that whatever the gentlemen were about, she was thankful to be home.

  “And you did not think to invite them for tea?” Mrs Tournier suddenly returned to the conversation.

  “I am sure,” Holly answered, her eyes narrowing, “that there were better prospects awaiting them than what we could offer.”

  “Pity,” her mother answered and picked up her book. “That might have made me remember. Well, certainly it will come to me soon.”

  Just then Mrs Higgins came in with a tray that could not belie Holly’s assertion. A pot of steaming hot tea that had been stretched with dried herbs from the larder — from the aroma, it was raspberry leaves this time — a plate of toasted bread, a bowl of fruit preserves, a small sugar dish and a cream pitcher. Sufficient for family and close friends, but not what one would customarily serve to proud, young society men from London.

  Elizabeth offered to pour and could not help but smile when she realised that, as usual, the small pitcher held not cream, but honey. On earlier visits she had learned the strange secrets of the Rosefarm tea tray: no cake or biscuits unless guests were expected, cream was never wasted in a tea cup, the white sugar was for Mrs Tournier — her one indulgence when it could be afforded — or company. Elizabeth had been assured many times over that she could avail herself of the sugar bowl as well, but since Holly invariably sweetened her tea with honey or treacle, insisting that she preferred it that way, she felt it was only fair to do so as well, leaving the expensive treat for her aunt to enjoy as long as possible.

  In fact, the tangy, herb-laced cup of tea sweetened with honey was a distinct
ive taste and memory that she associated with Rosefarm Cottage, good conversation, and happy times. She would have been disappointed to be presented with a traditional cup loaded with cream and sugar when there. It would have seemed too bland and ordinary for the surroundings.

  BAUGHAM STIRRED HIS RICH, SWEET tea carefully in silence while Darcy fastidiously declined the cake as he assembled his meal. Mrs McLaughlin had laid out a delectable spread of scones, cakes, biscuits, meat, various preserves and pie for the gentlemen’s enjoyment, but neither of them paid it much attention.

  “I think you had better tell me the whole story,” Baugham said and sat down opposite his friend in front of the roaring fire.

  Darcy stared ahead into the flames with his fist to his mouth.

  “Evidently I must. Otherwise I will never find peace from your relentless curiosity I suppose. However, it is not a simple tale.”

  “Simple tales bore me,” his host said. “And whatever you try to convince yourself and others, things are never that simple with you.”

  “Leave the reviews on my life until I’m finished,” his friend said dryly. “You would not want to pre-empt your scorn and pity.”

  Baugham made a conciliatory gesture and settled down.

  “I am in love with Miss Bennet,” Darcy said. “Fatally, humiliatingly, totally and inescapably.”

  He stopped, as if that was the extent of it.

  “Right?” Baugham prompted him. “And?”

  “That is why I am here: to see her.”

  His friend sighed, got up from his comfortable chair, took a turn around the tea tray to add some more sugar to his tea and then slowly walked round to his desk, rummaged through his drawers and pulled out a clear, long necked bottle filled with a golden liquid. He brought the bottle round to his seat and poured a generous dollop into his cup, silently offering Darcy some, too. With the slightest of nods, his friend accepted.

  The sat in silence again, feeling the whiskey slowly flow into their stomachs, seep into their veins and spread a warm glow through their bodies.

  “I asked her to marry me once. In Kent. She emphatically turned me down. In fact, she told me I was the last man on earth she would marry. I remember the words quite clearly. But when I ran into her again — ”

  “Ran into her? You have seen her since?”

  “Yes. On several occasions. And I cannot quite see — but I think, perhaps, she does not think so ill of me as then. In fact, that is what I need to know from her. Her opinion of me. I have tried very hard and I would hope she would recognise that. I thought she had.”

  There was a pause when Mr Darcy sank into his own thoughts and his friend tried to make sense of this confusing statement. Darcy? In love? So Darcy’s cousin Anne was out of the equation then? How interesting! How fortunate! But how very, very strange.

  “Why have I never seen her in Town? How curious. She must be much sought after to think herself in a position to refuse your offer . . . one of these provincial heiresses, is she?”

  Darcy straightened his back and drank the last of his tea. Without feeling the need for polite pretence, he poured a new drink of the whiskey straight into his teacup.

  “Her fortune is nothing to speak of, perhaps a thousand pounds, perhaps less . . . ”

  “What?” Baugham sat up, dumbfounded. “A country girl with fifty pounds a year at the most? I don’t understand. And notwithstanding your foolery in offering for such a woman, what in the world gives her the audacity to turn you down?”

  “I suppose I should feel flattered by your blind faith in my endless qualities, but she did not love me,” Darcy answered quietly.

  “What in God’s name does that have to do with it? Love!” Baugham scoffed. “I don’t love you and I’d marry you! — well, you know what I mean,” he amended, seeing his friend look at him with something between exasperation and boredom. “You are a prime catch for any woman, my friend. You don’t smell; you possess manners, money and pedigree; have no vices to speak of; and any woman’s life as your wife would be very comfortable, very secure and very fine. And still, whoever said that love and marriage ought to be mixed? — if love exists at all, and on that matter I have my serious doubts. You are much better off to marry a suitable woman you can tolerate reasonably well, and then discreetly take your enjoyments as you may. It is much simpler that way. Saves everyone from grief, trouble and silliness.”

  “Yes,” Darcy answered, emptying his cup once again. “I can see how your philosophies have simplified your life immensely and kept you out of troublesome situations.”

  “But Darcy,” Baugham smiled, “I make no pretensions of wanting a simple, untroubled life when in Town. Unlike you, I enjoy a little intrigue and spark now and then. And anyway, refusing your offer of marriage makes no sense for any woman.”

  “Excepting when one does not have a very high opinion of my character.”

  Baugham stared at his friend. “How is that possible?”

  Darcy shifted in his chair and had just made up his mind to tell his friend about his efforts on behalf of his friend Bingley with regards to Miss Jane Bennet when Baugham turned around and eyed him excitedly.

  “Unless she is afraid of you!”

  “What?” Darcy was completely taken aback.

  “Well, a timid young woman might be somewhat . . . wary of you. And she did simper a bit when we met her outside the church and her friend obviously thought she was fragile as glass the way she held on to her. There’s all that wealth and responsibility of yours, and then you do tend to scare the living daylights out of people with that stare of yours when really in the mood.”

  “Miss Bennet is not frightened of me. In fact, the more one tries to intimidate her, the more she recklessly and provokingly questions you. And very cleverly she does it, too,” he added more quietly.

  “Well, then,” his friend was undaunted, “perhaps her affections are engaged elsewhere and that is why she refused you, which makes her a very foolish young woman in my opinion.”

  “Once again I’m touched by your blind faith in me.”

  “It’s a simple matter of reason,” his friend said calmly.

  Darcy looked at him carefully.

  “You have no idea of what I am speaking, have you? You have no idea what it is to have a woman turn you inside and out and put all your truths to shame and transform your certainties into follies?”

  “Of course I do!” Baugham bolted out of his chair and went to stand by the hearth instead. “But that, my friend, is not love. That is something else entirely and something better not let into a marriage. Especially when so much is at stake as in your case: family, estate, duty, obligations, reputation — why get hung up with this . . . Miss Bennet?”

  “Do not think I have not asked myself that very question a thousand times, but the answer is always the same. I need her. I want her. I love only her. And I cannot abandon that hope or my principles of honesty and sincerity unless I know, unequivocally, that there is no hope.”

  “Darcy, the woman you marry — and of course you must marry, I quite see that — must be worthy of you and all that you are. A Miss Bennet, from somewhere in Hertfordshire, poor as a church mouse, for heaven’s sake, who turns you down on the pretext of having a poor opinion of your character when all she needs to do is look around her to see how you inspire devotion in friends and underlings alike, can hardly be thought to be worthy of you and your principles. At the very least she is foolish beyond reason!”

  He grabbed the poker and executed a rough swirl into the burning logs although it was completely unnecessary and only served to send them crashing down to smother some of the underlying embers.

  “At worst,” he continued grimly, “she is a scheming, capricious, husband-hunting tease.”

  Darcy was standing now too, glaring at his friend. “Baugham! You forget yourself — I have told you how I feel about Miss Bennet and what’s more, your ignorance of what is really at stake here does not qualify you to insult her. Or me, for t
hat matter. I will have her as my wife, and my wife on terms of respect and mutual affection. This is about my happiness and, for once, recognising what is true and what is merely pompous parading of principles. If, that is, she will have me.”

  Chest heaving and eyes blazing, Darcy turned and stalked out of the room without another word.

  “Fool,” his lordship muttered when he heard the door slam, but his irritation was gone and there was a hint of sadness to his sneer.

  LEAVING THE YOUNG WOMEN BEHIND her in the sitting room, Mrs Tournier went by the kitchen to have a word with Mrs Higgins, their housekeeper. She found her sitting at the kitchen table scraping turnips, sat down and wordlessly came to her aid.

  “Higgins,” she said, “what do you know of the owner of Clyne Cottage?”

  Mrs Higgins, being accustomed to her Mistress’ inquisitive mind on a variety of subjects, was not surprised.

  “Not much, ma’am,” she confessed. “It’s a verra private gentleman. He calls himself Laird Baugham but I hear he’s really called the Earl of Cumbermere. My cousin, Mrs McLaughlin and her husband wirk and take care of the estate. For an estate it surely is. The cottage itself isn’t as grand as ye’d think, ma’am, but the grounds are large. Verra secret gentleman, she tells me.”

  “So I have heard. He and a friend of his caused quite a stir at church this morning, I believe. And my daughter apparently finds his presence much decreases the value of the neighbourhood.”

  “Aye, well, from what I’ve heard from my cousin he’s as good a Master as they come. But then, Heather always had a soft spot for saucy young men . . . ever since her Jack was killed in the Peninsula. And young Miss Holly surely is the most particular young leddy when it comes to young men, ma’am. The truth belike lies somewhere in the mids, I should think.”

  “I am very certain it does,” Mrs Tournier answered. “Well, perhaps we’ll one day clear up this mystery of the Master of Clyne, who leads a solitary existence only to pop up in church as cordially as you please one day out of the blue, with a friend in tow. The Earl of Cumbermere, eh? Well, well, I know that name well enough. This must be the son then . . . ”